


Another Word for Forever

by stardropdream



Series: Another Word for Forever [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Sex, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Artist Keith (Voltron), Blow Jobs, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Cultural Differences, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Time, Frottage, Galra Keith (Voltron), Hand Jobs, Language Barrier, Laughter During Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Mating Bites, Minor Violence, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Protectiveness, Purring Keith (Voltron), Scenting, Sharing a Bed, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sparring, Switching, Top Keith (Voltron), Top Shiro (Voltron), Virgin Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-10-04 21:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 61,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20477396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: Shiro knows better than to expect love in an arranged marriage. This is all for the sake of universal peace, after all, and solidifying a Terran-Galran alliance. At the very least, Shiro can hope to make a friend out of this.Becoming friends would be much easier, though, if he and his husband could actually communicate. With a language barrier and a mountain of cultural differences between them, getting to know Keith proves to be a challenge.Luckily, Shiro's always worked well with challenges.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeeonthebrunhild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeonthebrunhild/gifts).

> Fic request from [Amanda](https://twitter.com/SundaySEternal), who asked for an arranged marriage AU where Shiro and Keith have a language barrier they need to navigate while learning about one another. 
> 
> Regarding the rating: there is nothing explicit in this chapter but there will eventually be nsfw content. I'll be adding in tags (both nsfw and otherwise) as we go, but note that **no archive warnings will apply.** If you have any concerns about future content, feel free to contact me and I can elaborate on any potential squicks/triggers. 
> 
> There is a language barrier in this fic; I try to clarify in the narrative which languages are being spoken and at what time, but for a general shorthand, any fully italicized dialogue is in Galran, and non-italicized dialogue is in Terran. Also, when characters use the "universal translator", that's referring to the Star Trek concept of a device implanted in the ear that automatically translates languages both heard and spoken for its wearers. 
> 
> Thank you to [Sam](https://twitter.com/lasersheith/) and [Gen](https://twitter.com/Cold_Flame96) for reading this over. ♥

Less than a varga before Shiro’s wedding, Hunk reads a message on his PADD and announces, “The Galran delegation’s touched down, Captain. His Highness should be here shortly.” 

Shiro nods, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, Hunk.” 

Shiro tries to quell his nerves, releasing that breath in a slow exhale. He’s had the better part of a quintant to prepare for his meeting with his future husband— but now that the time’s arrived, his heart’s kicking up in his chest. So much for breathing exercises. 

Shiro starts fiddling with his traditional Galran ceremonial garb. The clothes are far from uncomfortable, but the Galran style of trousers is perhaps a bit too tight even for Shiro’s admittedly form-fitting tastes. The robes sweep around him, stopping mid-knee and curving around his body like twisted-up sheets. Shiro fiddles and fiddles and fiddles with the complex ties holding it all together and tells himself he’s not _really _nervous. 

Hunk looks up as Shiro’s fidgeting loosens his robes and they yawn open on his chest. Hunk doesn’t say it aloud but Shiro feels his judgement as he stands. He walks to Shiro and fixes his garments for him with deft fingers. 

“This fold goes inside,” Hunk says, demonstrating. “And the sleeves tuck into the gloves.” 

Shiro makes the necessary adjustments, folding the luminous purple fabric into his black gloves. 

“Better?”

Shiro nods. “Guess this is why you’re the expert.” 

“Hardly,” Hunk answers, cringing. 

Shiro stares down at himself, running his hands over the front of his robes. The fabric is smooth like liquid, and there aren’t any wrinkles, but it gives his hands something to do. 

There wasn’t any requirement for him to wear Galran clothing for his wedding. If anything, he’s sure the Terran forces would have preferred he wear his formal uniform instead. But Shiro believes wearing this is an appropriate gesture— a show of unity rather than a show of defiance. 

It’s a strategic choice, Shiro thinks, and smiles to himself without mirth. To think that his wedding can be boiled down to a series of strategic choices. 

Not that Shiro expected differently when he agreed to this plan. It’s not a wedding, after all— it’s politics. His marriage to a Galran prince will be the lynchpin in a Terran-Galran alliance decaphoebs in the making, to be solidified and negotiated here on Altea as the neutral third party. Nothing more. 

Shiro watches Hunk as he returns to his seat in the corner, well out of the way of the grand doors. Hunk picks up his datapad, checking for any updates on the incoming Galran delegation. 

All Shiro needs to do is wait. 

He adjusts his gloves again and then holds out his arms, gesturing a little and asking Hunk around a teasing smile, “So, do I look like a proper blushing groom yet?” 

Hunk gives him a vaguely sympathetic look and attempts a weak smile. That’s answer enough. 

Shiro doesn’t know Hunk well; he was only recently assigned to Shiro’s crew to serve as interpreter for the upcoming negotiations. Apparently, that duty also includes serving as translator for two fiancés meeting for the first time. 

According to Shiro’s briefing during the journey to Altea, the universal translators only work with thirty percent accuracy with the Galran language due to the planet’s long-standing isolation from other alien cultures. The drastic variety in their dialects tends to overwhelm the system. The more Shiro speaks with his husband, however, the more the translator will document and adapt. In _theory_, anyway. 

Thus, Hunk is necessary. 

“His Highness is incoming,” Hunk announces as he reads off the PADD. 

Shiro turns towards the huge banks of windows that open to a massive garden of juniberry flowers and antovian trees, hanging heavy with summer fruits the size of river stones. He heaves a low sigh, waiting. 

“Nervous?” Hunk asks and it sounds less like small talk and more genuine curiosity. 

Shiro can’t blame him. He imagines it must seem odd, that Shiro would calmly accept this assignment like it’s any other job. It’s not every day that one’s entire race asks for a sacrifice for the sake of the greater good, after all. 

“No,” Shiro answers. He hopes Hunk interprets his earlier fumbling as unfamiliarity with his outfit and not from nerves. 

“Do you think he’ll like you?” Hunk asks, maybe more to himself than to Shiro. 

Shiro keeps his eyes on the antovian fruit, swaying along the branches, and wonders if it’s true that they taste similar to Terran durian. He wonders if Daibazaal has anything similar, and imagines he’ll learn as much once the negotiations are over and he and his husband return to the Galran home planet together. 

“I don’t know,” he confesses. He imagines his future husband can’t be thrilled about the arrangement. Shiro isn’t anything special.

Certainly, Shiro knows better than to expect love. And he’s okay with that. 

One of the antovian fruits falls from the tree, hitting the ground and rolling, pulsing a bright orange color to advertise its ripeness. 

He hears Hunk take a breath, like he’s going to ask something else, but stops when the door opens. Shiro closes his eyes, steadying himself, feeling the tension build in his shoulders as one figure enters the room and the doors shut behind him, closing out the rest of the Galran delegation. 

Shiro breathes. And then he turns to face his husband. 

It’d be stupid to think the world stops, but for half a blink, Shiro thinks it’s true. 

Shiro has been trained for years in alien diplomacy and implicit bias, and still his first thought when he looks to the Galran prince is _cat._ The Galra are _not_ cats by any means; they are a varied, expansive race and, yes, maybe there are some similarities to Earth species, but making such comparisons is simply a product of Shiro’s human brain. He’s attended enough Alien Cultural Literacy Seminars to know that much.

But still, Prince Yorak has huge, fuzzy cat ears peeking out of a mop of dark black hair swept into the traditional Marmora-style braid. Said not-cat ears are perked up, almost attentive, as he takes Shiro in the same way Shiro studies him, eyes sweeping over him. 

Prince Yorak is young, his face angular. He’s wearing the same style robe as Shiro, although longer— draping down to the floor instead of stopping knee-length. He has twin markings on his cheeks, a lighter purple than the soft downy hair that covers him head to toe. Those stripes sweep up towards his eyes, deep and dark and striking. 

Shiro doesn’t know what it is about the prince’s eyes make that it feel impossible to look away. The prince stares at him in turn. 

Shiro’s never seen a man so beautiful in his entire life. 

The thought surprises him. 

Shiro wonders what Yorak’s seeing as he looks at him— what parts of human features he’s focusing on as strange or unusual. When he first met Princess Allura, she went on for vargas about how strange she finds human ears, for instance. He once had a very long, grueling conversation with an Olkari about how odd it was that so many humans had unprotected, hanging genitals. 

Not that he should really be thinking about genitals right now. 

Shiro supposes he must cut a striking enough figure, as far as humans go. He’s tall for a human, but short for a Galra. Shiro knows he has the white hair and prosthetic, too, which always pulls questions from alien diplomats, ranging from politely pitying to explicitly invasive. 

He can’t imagine he’s any particular catch. Not that it matters. Perhaps Prince Yorak is like Shiro— just completing another mission for the greater good. Shiro’s priority has always been his career. This is no different. 

They’ve stared at each other for a beat too long to be comfortable by human standards. But Yorak just studies him, eyes assessing, lids dropping half-closed as he regards him. Shiro has no idea what the expression means. 

Shiro offers a smile. After a pause, the prince mimics the gesture. It looks tentative, if Shiro’s correct in his interpretation of Galran expressions. The prince blinks at him, slowly. 

And then the prince bows— not in the Altean-style or any sort of Galra-gesture, but a traditional Japanese bow. The movement catches Shiro by surprise. It’s been so long since Shiro’s seen anyone bow like this, much less an alien. After all, aliens tend to lump Terrans into some monolithic culture in which handshakes are the norm. The Galran prince did his homework about his future husband’s origins, it seems. 

Hastily, Shiro returns the bow just as the prince rises and greets, “Hello, Captain Shirogane.” 

There’s the smallest lilt to his voice, an accent betraying his struggle around the alien words, but his voice is deep, graveled out and just a little husky, like smooth whiskey on a hot summer night. Shiro feels instantly comforted by the sound of it, although he can’t explain the reason why. He breathes out, wanting to shiver but resisting. 

“_It’s an honor, Prince Yorak,_” Shiro responds, stumbling over the Galran he’s been cramming for the past phoebs ever since learning of his impending wedding. Unfortunately, he only knows the most basic of phrases and he knows his pronunciation is sorely lacking. All the same, surprise touches Yorak’s face as he registers the words. 

The prince looks at him, something cautious in his expression. Like he’s expecting a battle. Maybe that’s a Galra thing. The prince touches his chest, looking up at him, and says, “Keith.” 

Shiro’s sure he must have misheard, and it must show on his face. The prince’s ears dip back, pressing in tight towards his skull as he repeats the word and gesture. Shiro’s eyes flick towards Hunk but he knows it’s rude to look away from Galran royalty first once eye contact is established. He wrenches his eyes back towards the prince. 

The prince points to Shiro. “Captain Shirogane.” And then he points to himself. “Keith.” 

“Oh,” Shiro says, realization dawning. “Keith. You want to be called Keith.” 

Shiro has no idea how the name _Keith_ could be a variation of _Yorak_, but he accepts it with an easy nod. The prince’s shoulders lower, just a little. 

Shiro points to the prince. “Keith,” he says and then touches his own chest, parroting him. “Shiro.” 

“Shiro?” 

“Call me Shiro,” Shiro invites. 

The prince licks his lips, voice quiet as he tests the word: “Shiro.” 

It sounds nice, lilting and gentle in Keith’s voice. Shiro’s grateful that his husband isn’t insisting on any sort of formality. 

Hunk chooses this moment to clear his throat and rise from his seat. Keith stares at Shiro, unblinking, and Shiro wonders again what he sees when he looks at him. Keith narrows his eyes, blinking once, and only begrudgingly turns his head to look at Hunk once he starts speaking in Galran. 

Keith looks shocked at the sudden onslaught of his native language. Shiro’s not sure what Hunk’s saying— presumably introducing himself and his role. Keith speaks, voice gravelly and low, ears flicking, one towards Hunk and the other towards Shiro, poised to listen even though Shiro doesn’t say anything. 

Hunk turns to Shiro and says, “Prince Yorak says it’s his extreme honor to be bonded to such… a mighty Terran warrior.” 

Shiro laughs, which he knows immediately to be the wrong response since Keith’s ears flick back to press against his skull, eyes big as he looks at him, vaguely alarmed. It isn’t Shiro’s fault— it’s just the idea of someone calling him a mighty warrior that arrests him. He knows from bitter experience how to fight, and he knows how the Galra value personal honor and reputation in general, but it still feels strange to be called such. 

“_Your words reach me,_” Shiro answers, since Keith’s particular dialect doesn’t have an actual word for _thank you._ Maybe it’s too weak a sentiment. He nods, all the same, and Keith’s ears ease back off his head. Shiro looks helplessly over at Hunk and says, “The honor’s all mine.” 

Hunk relays the words and Keith turns his head to watch with undisguised curiosity, head tilted. Keith asks Hunk something. The two of them exchange a few sentences that Shiro can’t even begin to follow. He’s been studying Galran, yes, but it’s a complex language. Shiro feels dizzy trying to latch onto any individual word.

When the conversation pauses, Hunk looks to Shiro and says, “The prince wanted to know why and how I learned Galran.” 

Keith nods, picking up as much. “I… know some Terran,” he admits to Shiro in a quiet voice, looking down. “But not enough.” 

“I think you speak it well,” Shiro says, kindly. “Better than my Galran.” 

“I hear your words,” Keith murmurs. Then his face scrunches up as he corrects, “Thank you.” 

“You honor me,” Shiro answers, mechanically. 

And the sentiment is true. He can’t imagine a Galran prince can be all that delighted to be shackled to a human pilot. He’s hardly royalty or a celebrity or accomplished anything half as amazing as many of his people. All he ever managed to do was say a few fancy words to some diplomats and get captured into an underground Galran fighting ring. Allegedly Galran. 

“I’m not going to be available the whole time you two are together,” Hunk says. “So you can use me as an opportunity to talk, you know?” He turns to Keith, saying the same thing, in Galran, presumably. 

Shiro turns to Keith with a smile. “Anything you’d like to know?” 

He waits as Hunk conveys the question to Keith. Shiro’s familiar enough with conversations with interpreters— he poses the questions to Keith and waits and knows to give his answer to Keith in turn, not Hunk. 

Keith says something and Shiro hears Hunk translate, “Why do you think you aren’t a great warrior?” 

It isn’t the question Shiro expected. He blinks, momentarily taken aback. Keith stares up at him, not demanding or aggressive in any way— just curious. Maybe, perhaps, a little mournful. But maybe Shiro’s just projecting on that part. He isn’t sure how to interpret Keith’s expressions. He is, after all, not human. 

Shiro smiles and it’s a brittle thing. Again, it must be the wrong thing to do because Keith’s shoulders go just a little rigid, ears quirking away. 

“I understand that many Galran warriors fight for personal honor and glory,” Shiro answers. “_Verpit sa._” Keith’s ears flick up at the words. “But me,” Shiro continues, “I only ever fought because it was required of me. I don’t see myself as any sort of warrior… only doing what I must.” 

_I felt like an animal in the arena,_ he doesn’t say. He hasn’t admitted that part aloud to anybody. 

It’s counter to everything he knows about Galran cultural values. He imagines what he’s just said must be insulting to his Galran husband-to-be.

But Keith surprises him by nodding, once Hunk translates the words, his eyes big and sympathetic, but not pitying. At least, Shiro doesn’t think he’s pitying. He speaks, eyes on Shiro. 

“My clan believes in knowledge above all,” Hunk translates for them, “It isn’t about victory, it’s about understanding. A warrior who fights only for his personal gain is not a true warrior. With knowledge comes wisdom… with wisdom comes a chance to stop a fight before it begins. A fight can reveal what must be revealed. The light gained through knowledge is more powerful than any burning flame.” 

This time, Shiro finds his smile a little more genuine— surprise coloring his voice. “Sounds like poetry.” 

When Hunk translates, Keith’s expression loosens, something a little more pleasant— less tense, less withdrawn. 

“I look forward to hearing more poetry,” Shiro says after a moment, as the silence lapses between them. He wonders if the Galra have actual poets. In the end, despite everything, he’s excited to learn more about the culture that’s about to adopt him. 

Speaking of. 

“Well,” he says to Keith. “We might as well get this over with, huh, future husband?” 

He’s not sure if his prince fiancé is going to necessarily see the humor in someone so beautiful marrying someone like him. He doesn’t even know if calling Keith beautiful would be an insult or a compliment to him. 

Shiro can’t help but find Keith’s eyes fascinating— watching the pupils slit and then spread out again as he registers Shiro’s words. His jaw clenches once and then relaxes, holding back some words. Shiro can’t blame him for the silence. 

Shiro offers his arm to Keith. They must make quite a pair, dressed in matching robes, Keith’s hair done up in the traditional braid. Now that he can see it, there are little white flowers tied off with the ribbon at the base of his braid— definitely a Terran gesture, not Galran. 

Shiro isn’t sure why the flowers soothe him, why it’s reassuring to see Keith making these little gestures like Shiro has. It’s purely diplomatic, he knows— nothing to do with him as a person. But it’s a start. 

-

The wedding ceremony is a combination of Galran and Terran traditions, as presented by the Alteans. Shiro can’t speak to the accuracy of Galran tradition, but in terms of Terran it seems a conglomerate of different cultures— flowers lining the little chairs guests sit in, for instance, although circular rather than lining an aisle. There’s no traditional altar to stand before but instead a burning orb of fire surrounded by a quintessence-enforced shield. 

Shiro watches Keith draw a blade from the scabbard at his back and wishes he’d had time to practice the ceremony instead of relying on a briefing. Shiro takes a steadying breath, praying he doesn’t mess this up somehow and cause an intergalactic incident as Keith presents the blade to him with quiet intensity. His hand curls around hilt and covers Keith’s with surprising ease.

“_Your blade is my blade,_” Shiro tells him, only briefly stumbling over the words and cringing about his botched pronunciation. His perfectionism niggles at the back of his head, scolding himself for not studying the words better, for not making them sound natural on his tongue. 

Keith doesn’t seem insulted, though, merely nodding his head and reciting the words back. Then, in Terran, in that same lilting, sweet voice, he promises, “Your enemy is my enemy. Your fight is my fight. I will protect you or fall upon our blade.” 

It’s only a ceremony— Keith doesn’t know him, and the words sound hollow even beyond the mechanical way he recites in his non-native language— and Shiro knows there’s no reason it should make his heart ache. He thought it wouldn’t matter to him, giving himself to this alliance, but in this moment, some quiet part of him mourns that nobody will ever really say that to him and mean it. 

Together, he and Keith turn to the smoldering orb of fire and plant the blade within it. The traditional Galran weapon sparks with purple light and then the orb burns blue-violet along with it. Keith and Shiro step back as an Altean approaches with the ceremonial tools, pulling the blade from the flames just as it starts going molten. With a strong cleave of the Galran striking hammer, the blade splits in two, to be fashioned into a blade made of the same source, attuned to them both as husbands and mates. 

With one final cleave, a long strip of molten Luxite is pulled from the blades, to be twisted into rings to fit the traditional Terran ceremony, too. 

Both blades and rings will need to be reshaped after the ceremony. For now, though, the split blade is presented to the two of them and Keith grasps the hilt of the blade lying before Shiro. Shiro grips the blade in front of Keith in turn.

The blades give a faint pulse of quintessence, sparking purple as their hands close around them. Keith keeps his eyes downcast, studying the halved blades. Shiro wonders, despite himself, what he’s thinking. 

“You are one with my clan,” Keith says. He looks up at him, eyes as dark and deep as the blades themselves. “You are mine.” 

Again, it’s mere recitation, but Shiro can’t help the pained smile it draws from him. Keith’s ears flick back, pressing against his skull. 

“_I am of your clan,_” Shiro agrees. “_You are mine._” 

Shiro knew it would be almost anticlimactic when the ceremony was complete. It is, in the end, merely ceremonial: one moment Shiro is not married and the next he is. But the writing’s been on the wall for phoebs of planning. It’s the first step in ending the tension between their peoples and establishing the much-needed alliance. 

Keith looks up at him and, really, Shiro can’t help but think his eyes are pretty. He wonders what Keith’s thinking— what he might have hoped for, once, or if it’s no sacrifice at all to give himself for an alliance, too. 

With the Galran portion of the ceremony complete, there’s only the last Terran tradition left. Keith tips his chin up, looking at him expectantly. Shiro clears his throat and then, gently leans down. It’s the briefest peck— hardly a kiss at all— just a brush of his mouth against Keith’s before he draws back. Keith’s ears flick as Shiro pulls away, blinking after him, but otherwise perfectly impassive. As far as ceremonies go, it’s hardly the stuff of passion. 

With the ringing of a single bell, the ceremony is complete— they are married. 

-

After the ceremony, the wedding party moves to a large banquet hall for the wedding feast. It consists mostly of Shiro and Keith letting everyone else eat before they do— representing how while they might put themselves first as a mated pair, they will still provide for the clan— and awkward conversations translated by Hunk. Thankfully it’s not too terribly long an affair, and soon enough an Altean council member leads them to where they’ll be lodging for the duration of their stay on Altea. 

Their room is a modest enclave. Shiro’s not sure if it’s the sort of lodging that a prince would be used to, but it seems serviceable. He’s had his fair share of extravagant and horrendous lodgings in his time traveling the universe, but the Alteans have always been gracious and accommodating to their guests. 

Shiro notes the one Terran-style bed with a small sense of resignation. He sees Keith make note of it, too, his ears flicking down before he looks away, trailing over towards the window and looking out it. It’s a massive bank of windows, wall to ceiling, opened down towards the expansive Altean gardens Shiro was admiring earlier. 

There’s an archway leading into the washroom and some chests likely holding their clothes and necessities. There’s a corner built for meditation, Galran mats and incense left out for Keith’s consideration. 

He watches Keith stand at the window and, slowly, pull his braid over his shoulder. He examines the ribbon and flowers at the end of it, his thumb passing over the plait. Shiro doesn’t understand the significance of it— whether it means something or is just an idle touch from Keith— but he can’t help but pause, watching him. Every movement is foreign. 

Shiro licks his lips and clears his throat before he calls, “Keith.” 

Keith turns, ears quirking upright as he regards him. Now that he’s looking, Shiro isn’t sure what to say and feels the heat build in his cheeks. 

Keith looks at him for a long moment and then steps to him, sliding into his space. He studies him, big-eyed and piercing. Shiro doesn’t think he could ever possibly grow used to such an intense gaze. 

Shiro doesn’t startle when Keith takes up his arm but frowns as Keith’s fingers slide over the metal casing on his prosthetic, tracing the lines of polymer and alloy. 

Shiro braces himself, waiting for the questions or the pitying look. Neither come. Keith’s hand is delicate but sure around his wrist, turning Shiro’s hand to examine it, determining something. 

Then Keith leans down and licks his metal wrist, over where tendons would be if he still had them. 

“Wha—” Shiro startles. 

Keith stops and looks up at him, looking pained, eyebrows pinching together and ears drooping. 

Shiro’s sure that, somehow, he’s overstepped. “Sorry! I… You—” He fumbles, unsure how to convey these words and praying the translator carries the weight of his awkwardness if only so he doesn’t need to call Hunk to explain this. “You surprised me.” 

Keith’s eyebrows pinch together further as he works his way through Shiro’s words. 

“I’m giving you…” Keith frowns as he struggles to collect the words. He flicks his free hand in a gesture that escapes Shiro, unsure what it could possibly mean in any context. “Me,” Keith says, placing a hand on his chest. “I give you mine.” 

Shiro has no idea what that means, and it must show on his face because Keith looks further frustrated, scowling to himself. His grip flexes on Shiro’s wrist. He steps back, lifting his hand and turning, demonstrating on himself— he laps at his wrist, focusing on one specific place and then nuzzling against it with his nose and cheek. 

Shiro again reminds himself that he’s not supposed to think of his husband as a giant alien cat, but it’s a struggle not to see it so. Some form of grooming? Or—

“Oh,” Shiro says. “You mean— your scent?” 

He’s heard about as much about the Galra. He’s never actually seen it, though. 

Keith frowns and nods, tentatively, likely just accepting Shiro’s assessment without being quite sure himself. Shiro bites his lip, considering. 

“Humans don’t scent,” Shiro tries to explain. “It’s—” 

“Oh,” Keith answers and drops his eyes away, the sound definitive and quiet. 

“I just mean— it’s okay,” Shiro assures him. “I’m just— I don’t know what to do. And— and you don’t have to with that arm. It’s… well. It’s different. You don’t need to touch it.” 

Keith frowns up at him as he processes the words. Then, abruptly, he lets go of Shiro and steps away from him, putting a chasm of space between them. 

Keith turns away, hand returning to his braid and tugging. Shiro watches as he uncurls the ribbon from the end of his braid and then catches the flowers before they fall to the floor. Shiro watches the braid unfurl, as easy and silky as water, and marvels at the beauty of it. Keith walks away from him, avoiding his eyes as he places the flowers down on a little table near the meditation corner, as if uncertain what to do with them. 

Laid out on that table for them is their newly attuned blades— forged properly during the wedding feast and presented to them now. Shiro can’t tell at a glance which blade was cleaved from the other, both the same design and size, insignia of Keith’s clan branded onto the hilts. Beside them still, their rings made of the same material glow a faint purple, responding to both the blades and the life presence. 

It’s a nice marriage of Terran and Galran tradition, Shiro thinks, watching Keith’s fingertips touch the rings.

“We’re supposed to put them on each other,” Shiro explains. 

Keith pauses, parsing the words, then looks back over at Shiro. His eyes are deep and intense but Shiro isn’t sure if he understood the words or not. Shiro really needs to buckle down on learning Galran. 

He moves to Keith’s side, picking up the smaller ring and gesturing with his other hand for Keith to offer his. He waits, not reaching out, and lets Keith cautiously place his hand in Shiro’s. 

Keith puzzles over their hands, watching as Shiro slips the ring onto his finger. When he looks up at Shiro, blinking, it seems as if he’s waiting for something. Expectantly. 

Helplessly, Shiro holds his hand out, wriggling his fingers a little and nodding towards the larger ring left on the table. Surprise touches Keith’s expression and he snatches the ring up before slipping it onto Shiro’s fingertip, too. Once placed, both rings pulse with quintessence as they attune to their wearers. 

Keith snatches his hand back, stepping from Shiro once again. 

Shiro smiles, faintly and says nothing about his husband’s apparent revulsion. Instead, he says, “It’d be a little awkward if they transformed like the blades do, huh? Like, turning from rings to belts.” 

He doesn’t expect the joke to land. Keith looks at him, utterly perplexed. Shiro can’t even begin to explain the joke in a way that’ll be anything other than embarrassing, so he lets it drop. 

“Never mind,” Shiro says, smiling. “Um… It was a nice party,” Shiro offers, somewhat awkwardly, unsure if the translator will assist in Keith’s comprehension this time. 

Keith’s ears flick forward. Shiro isn’t sure if it’s polite to stare— probably not— but they’re easily the most expressive part of Keith so far. At the very least, they seem to give Shiro a hint for what Keith’s thinking. 

Keith considers Shiro’s words and then nods. “Yes.” 

Shiro stands there, waiting to see if he’ll say more, but it seems Keith’s content to leave it at that. Shiro’s under the distinct impression that Keith doesn’t like or dislike him— he seems purposefully neutral, like Shiro is nothing more than another piece of furniture. Not that Shiro would even begin to know how to read his body language to know if that’s true or not.

The Galran language relies not just on the spoken word, but subharmonics and body language. It’s like three languages rolled into one and Shiro knows he’s missing far too many social cues to ever fully comprehend what Keith is and isn’t saying to him. 

Shiro wasn’t exactly expecting Keith to pounce on him, literally or figuratively, but he gives Shiro a wide berth, giving him an almost comical amount of space. Keith doesn’t look at him as they prepare for bed. 

Tentatively, Shiro slips beneath the covers and watches Keith approach, cautiously, not unlike a spooked animal. His ears are pressed back and he’s avoiding eye contact as he slides into bed beside Shiro. 

“Do we… ah,” Shiro offers. He’s never been one to let things go unsaid, or to let the awkwardness mount. Better to acknowledge it head-on, so to speak, and come up with a solution. “I don’t know what you’re expecting.” 

Keith’s brows pinch with lack of understanding and he looks up at Shiro, bewildered. 

“Um,” Shiro explains. “I don’t know what to do.” 

Keith frowns at him and then understanding dawns. Shiro watches as a flush rises over Keith’s cheeks, visible even beneath the soft fuzz of his purple fur. It leaves his cheeks flushing an even deeper purple. 

Keith’s answer is to turn his back to Shiro, pointedly, staying on his own side of the bed. 

“You do nothing,” Keith tells him and Shiro isn’t sure if it’s rejection or reassurance. 

Shiro breathes out and rolls onto his side, his back to Keith. They lie like that, an open space between them and Shiro closes his eyes, trying to sleep. But ever since the arena, he hasn’t slept well in general, especially not in new places. He doesn’t expect that he’ll get much sleep tonight, and with someone in the bed with him, he can’t do his traditional star-fish sprawl seeking the cooler side of the mattress. 

He lies perfectly still, unable to relax even as he hears Keith’s breathing drops off into deeper pulls of air. He’s a burning furnace beside Shiro, radiating heat in the way only a Galra can. Shiro’s sweating not too long after settling, his sleep shirt clinging to his chest. He tends to run hot, too, and tends to wear very little when he sleeps. The combination makes for misery— overdressed and overheated, unable to move or relax. 

Approximately two vargas into the night, Keith rolls over and seeks him out, spooning up against his body. Shiro startles, wide awake, and turns his head to regard his husband. But Keith’s clearly still sleeping, his hair draped over his shoulder and tickling Shiro’s neck. He murmurs in his sleep and nuzzles close, nose pressing against Shiro’s heated skin. 

Much like he did earlier with Shiro’s wrist, he licks at the line of Shiro’s neck, instinctively fueled in his sleep. He presses so close to Shiro that it’d be impossible for Shiro to pull free without disturbing him. His arms are tight around Shiro, the long line of his body pressed up to Shiro’s back. 

Shiro sighs. It figures that the Galra would have reactions even in sleep— it isn’t that Keith wants anything from this, he’s only seeking the warmth of another body. Still, it’s horrendously uncomfortable and Shiro knows he won’t get any sleep like this.

He closes his eyes, staying still so as not to disturb Keith— no sense in them both sleeping poorly— and tries not to sweat profusely. 

Halfway through the night, Keith’s chest rumbles with what feels and sounds like a purr. It lances up Shiro’s body, almost soothing. If he were capable of sleep, the sound would be enough to lull him. 

His eyes drift shut again and he tries not to think about it too deeply. 

-

Shiro dozes in spurts but startles to wakefulness when the sudden swell of heat at his back disappears with a lurch. Keith jerks away from him, stumbling back so far that he nearly tumbles out of the bed. 

A strangled curse escapes his lips and he recoils, leaping to his feet and backpedaling like he’s been burned. It might have been comical if Shiro had been at all awake, but all he can do is sit up and rub at his face. His bleary eyes meet Keith’s and he tries for a reassuring smile. 

“Hey,” he says, voice groggy, feeling miserable and exhausted. “It’s okay.” 

But it seems like it’s anything but okay with Keith. His cheeks blush a ruddy red-purple and he turns away, sitting on the edge of the bed with rigid shoulders. Shiro isn’t sure how to interpret his expression— if it’s terror or mortification, shyness or confusion. Either way, the awkwardness is clear. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, gently, wanting to reassure him and knowing he’ll lack the language to do so. “Hey…” he murmurs, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He feels sticky with sweat and in desperate need of a shower. “Keith,” he says again. “It’s okay. Did you sleep well?” 

Keith’s eyebrows pinch and he gives him a bewildered look. He looks down and then back up again and then, tentatively, nods his head. 

“Did you?” he asks Shiro. 

Shiro considers, wondering if it’s better to lie. Keith’s embarrassment is clear, but honesty seems the best route. Shiro smiles apologetically. “I never sleep well.” 

Keith frowns, looking concerned, but doesn’t ask Shiro to elaborate— either out of politeness or disinterest. They sit there, the silence stewing between them. Shiro wishes again, not for the first time and likely not for the last, that he was better at learning languages, wishes he had a better grasp of Galran in order to reassure Keith. 

“What will you do today?” Shiro asks. 

Keith’s quiet and then says, “The talks.” 

Right. The negotiations. With the wedding over, focus will turn towards stabilizing other agreements and treaties between the Galra and the other universal forces. Delegates arrive by the day and with it, an ever-expanding laundry list of demands and reparations. 

Shiro grew up wanting to be an astronaut, to explore the stars— he never had much interest in being a soldier and even less in being a diplomat. But it seems the universe always has different plans and, with it, responsibilities. Shiro’s a pawn in negotiations, now— a symbol of a bond with his people to Keith’s. 

“Do you—” Shiro begins, but Keith’s already standing and retreating to the washroom, fingers twisted up in his hair. 

Shiro watches him go, silent. It stands to reason he should want to know Keith better, but right now it seems a near-impossible feat. 

-

At breakfast, Shiro stares down forlornly at the Altean-style oatmeal, which as far as Shiro can tell is made up of some sort of grain grown on the back of a giant worm, which makes it a little less appetizing. Even if Shiro’s long since accepted that maintaining veganism in space is a little difficult— except for on Olkarion, maybe—he still stares down at his breakfast glumly. 

Beside him, Hunk reaches over and yanks the bowl away. “Here.” 

With a flourish, he adds some ingredients from the table setting, mixing it all together. He sets it back down in front of Shiro with a wave of his hand. 

“Try it now.” 

Shiro takes a tentative spoonful and feels his face light up. “Hunk!” he says, knowing he’s gushing. “Wow, this is so much better!”

Hunk grins. “Ha, thanks. I do what I can.” 

Keith peers at them both from where he sits beside Shiro. He leans forward, examining Shiro’s bowl and then looks up to Hunk, asking a question. Hunk answers with a grin and holds out his hand to Keith. 

He does the same thing to Keith’s bowl of Altean oatmeal before presenting it back to him. Shiro watches out of the corner of his eye as Keith takes a tentative bite and then also visibly brightens. He shovels in a larger mouthful and chews. 

“Guess His Highness approves, too,” Hunk says, bashfully. 

Shiro catches Keith’s eye and gives him a cautious smile. Keith pauses in chewing, ears quirking up. 

Shiro feels some sort of pressure to ask Hunk something to convey to Keith. With an interpreter sitting right there, it seems like the best opportunity to actually get to know Keith, even with the inherent awkwardness having to use a proxy. 

Any question he could think of escapes him, though. It feels too much like uncomfortable blind dates— small talk questions designed to try to get to know someone, but, in the end, revealing very little. Then again, coming in hot with a deep question might be just as horrendous a choice. 

All the while, Shiro’s wedding blade digs into the small of his back. He can’t imagine how Keith can be so comfortable with his own strapped to his spine like this. He shifts around, trying to adjust his position in his seat. 

Finally, with a sigh, he unhooks his blade. Keith stills beside him, his eyes widening as Shiro sets it down on the table. 

“_Shiro_,” Hunk hisses. 

Shiro blinks in shock as the table around them grows quiet, the Galra staring in horror at the blade on the table. Shiro feels the mood in the room change instantly. All the Galra downright glower at him. 

Blushing, Shiro snatches the blade up and shoves it out of view, unsure what faux pas he’s managed to create but knowing he’s colossally fucked up. He looks over at Keith, bewildered and feeling cornered, to find his husband’s ears pressed tight to his skull, purple eyes wide. 

“Sorry,” he says, helplessly, strapping his blade back to the small of his back and squirming in his seat. 

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Hunk says, absolutely unnecessarily. 

“Yeah, I can _see_ that,” Shiro hisses as, slowly, the breakfast party returns to its meal, some Galra still flicking judgmental glances towards him. 

Hunk says something to Keith— undoubtedly explaining that Shiro’s an idiot who doesn’t know anything. Keith gives Shiro an especially wounded look. 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, looking at Keith. 

“There is nothing to forgive,” Keith says faintly and looks away, returning his attention to his bowl of oatmeal. He eats it, although much less enthusiastically. 

Shiro looks over at Hunk. Hunk shrugs. 

“You just announced your discontent. You basically just invited everyone at the table to join you and Keith in a threesome,” Hunk says with such seriousness that Shiro wonders if he’s being messed with. Probably not. 

Shiro pales all the same and hunches his shoulders, staring into his bowl of oatmeal for the remainder of the meal, ignoring everyone else. 

-

Once that disastrous breakfast is complete, Shiro flees. He exits the Altean High Council, hurrying to spend his free time before the start of negotiations walking through the Altean open-air market. It helps clear his mind, if only a little. He can just look at the strange Altean fruit for sale and imagine a world where he could do this on every planet— just linger, enjoying the small cultural touchstones. 

A reality in which he doesn’t have to be a diplomat or a soldier or a pawn or a bargaining chip. Where he didn’t have to make sacrifices and didn’t have to constantly check what he’s doing. 

He could just be Shiro. 

A stupid wish. 

-

That night, Shiro gets the sense that Keith’s waiting for him to fall asleep first. At least, Shiro’s painfully aware of Keith’s breathing. The Galra seem to have deeper lung capacity than humans because Keith’s breathing starts out pretty deep and even. No matter how much time passes, though, it doesn’t elongate further into a barely-breathing exhale. 

Keith doesn’t move. He doesn’t come closer. He doesn’t even shift the way a sleeping body would. 

Not that Shiro is much better. He holds himself totally still, poised on his side, aware of how fatigued and exhausted he feels but unable to drift off. There was a time, once upon a time, when he could sleep deeply. The arena successfully shattered that sleeping pattern. 

He opens his eyes in the dark, staring at the far wall. He wants to roll over onto his other side but doesn’t want to jostle Keith or risk disturbing him, in case Keith’s trying to fall asleep, too. The stiller he holds himself, however, the more he wants to turn and look. 

He heaves the deepest, longest sigh, his body bone-tired. 

Finally, voice groggy and croaky with disuse, he asks, “I don’t suppose the Galra have lullabies, do they?” 

“What?” Keith asks, sounding sleepy. The words must not have translated.

Shiro closes his eyes. “Never mind.” 

-

In the quintants that follow, Shiro learns several things. 

The first thing he knows: breakfast. Shiro’s mindful not to stare too blatantly at the other Galra in attendance. He observes them, though, noting the differences and similarities between these other Galra and Keith. 

There’s a mated pair that always sits at the furthest end of the table so they can sit comfortably side by side and twist their tails together. They seem to always be touching. Their tails entwined, their hands touching, one pressing up against the other’s neck. At one point, Shiro watches one woman lower her head to headbutt affectionately against the other woman, nuzzling. 

It isn’t longing that blooms in Shiro’s chest. He’s long since made peace with the knowledge that he’ll never have such things. However, watching the distinct difference between mated pairs who chose one another, and the way Keith holds himself purposefully separate from Shiro makes him certain on a visceral level that he is the last person Keith would ever choose for himself. 

It’s clear in the way Keith holds himself. He doesn’t touch Shiro, not even absently, and he certainly doesn’t seek to initiate anything. He lies on the bed as far from Shiro as possible at night. He sits opposite him at the table. He avoids his eyes during the peace talks. 

The second thing he knows: their bedroom. Once Keith’s asleep, he might plaster himself to Shiro’s back, purring and pressing his face between his shoulder blades, but come the sunrise, he rips himself away from Shiro as if Shiro’s a bag of snakes. 

Shiro’s not sure if it’s pity that the other Galra cast him, but he’s not blind to the way their eyes follow him as he moves down the hall or speaks at the negotiation table. They duck close together to murmur in quiet words, words that his translator can’t make sense of. 

They look at him like he is unworthy. _There he is,_ their eyes seem to say, _the broken human that thinks itself equal to our prince._ Shiro’s used to both the pitying and disgusted looks. He saw them in the arena plenty of times, when he was thrown before a massive Galra and the crowd cooed at what must surely be an easy battle. But they never saw Shiro coming. 

He wishes he had the ability to lay it all out to Keith like that. _I’m sorry I’m not who you want,_ for a start. Sorry he’s a broken human. Sorry he’s not what was wanted or expected. Sorry he can’t even communicate. 

The third thing he knows: his husband is near impossible to read, save for what he perceives through his ears. Shiro’s making a silent catalogue— quirked ears for curiosity, pressed-back for anger, angled forward for amusement. A tensed face is unhappiness and a relaxed face is acceptance. 

It’s something. It’s better than nothing. 

Shiro has never felt so lost.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so overwhelmed and grateful for the response this fic has gotten so far! Truly, thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter! 
> 
> Massive thanks to [Janel](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813) who helped me brainstorm some key moments in this chapter. You are a blessing. ♥
> 
> (And continued thanks to Sam & Gen for reading this over.)

There’s one benefit to endless diplomatic peace negotiations, Shiro thinks as he stares at the wall opposite the bed: if he spends all day, every day in endless circular talk, his head gets too stuffed with diplomacy and contingencies to think much of anything else. While he still can’t say he’s getting a good night’s sleep, at least his head’s filled with cottony white noise rather than anything destructive. Usually by now he’d be run through with nightmares, unable to get any sleep at all. 

He’s still not getting much sleep, but at least he can use the quiet late hours for brainstorming other things. Shiro supposes this is as close to meditation as he can get. 

He isn’t sure what time it is now. It’s late enough that barely any moonlight comes through their bank of windows. Keith purrs away, pressed up flushed against his back, radiating heat like a furnace. 

Shiro wonders if he’s ever going to be used to that, or if he’ll spend every night sweating just from the overwarmth of Keith’s body. Keith shifts in his sleep, letting out a soft breath that ghosts against the back of his neck. 

Keith’s hand presses against Shiro’s belly, the whisper of claws touching at his stomach through the thin layer of his shirt. 

Shiro sighs out, closing his eyes and trying to focus on the rumbling sound of his husband’s breathing. As far as he can tell, silent and still as he listens each night, Keith’s purr is different from his breathing. The rumbling sound is ever-present, neither rising nor falling the way his chest does as he breathes. 

Like this, Shiro can’t help the small smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. It isn’t quite amusement, but maybe something more like wonderment. He knows, come morning, Keith will wake and push himself away. For now, though, it almost feels like comfort— like he isn’t quite so alone in the universe. 

The thought is pathetic. If Shiro’s alone in the universe, it’s his own fault. He’s always prioritized his career, after all. Shiro suspects that’s why he was selected for this assignment, anyway. He was the only higher-ranked officer with experience in alien diplomacy, a willingness to relocate to a new planet, and without any romantic attachments that could interfere with an alliance. 

Now, every night, a body presses up against his— but it doesn’t mean anything. Keith’s seeking heat in his sleep, he thinks. There’s no desire or passion behind the touch. 

Shiro tips his head down, studying the violet hand pressed to his stomach. Gently, Shiro pries it off, mindful not to squirm too much as he slowly untucks Keith from around him. The purring doesn’t cease but Keith’s ears twitch in his sleep, directing towards Shiro’s subtle movements. 

With some effort, Shiro manages to untangle Keith from around his body and settle back on his own side of the bed. He’ll be more comfortable that way, Shiro knows.

Keith’s eyes blink open, sleep-fuzzed and unfocused. He makes an inquiring sound, not fully awake. 

“Sleep,” Shiro urges him, apologetically. He hadn’t meant to wake him up, but it occurs to him that he doesn’t know how light a sleeper Keith might be. 

Keith blinks at him and his eyes fall shut. 

Shiro lingers, watching Keith’s face slacken as he returns fully to sleep. Carefully, he turns back onto his side, facing the wall, his back to Keith. 

Unsurprisingly, about five doboshes later, Keith is nuzzling into his neck again, pressing into his back with a low, sleepy whine. He isn’t awake, Shiro thinks, just his own instincts guiding him now. 

He really_ does_ need to ask Hunk about this part. But the idea of talking about something like this with Hunk is beyond mortifying. 

Shiro sighs, resigning himself to another long night of wakefulness. At least Keith can sleep soundly. 

-

A little over a movement into their marriage, things fall into a routine. They wake in the morning, they dress for the day, they eat breakfast, they speak briefly with Hunk, they attend negotiations, they break for mid-day, they return for more negotiations, they eat their dinner, and they retire for the night. 

At the very least, Keith no longer _springs_ away from Shiro in the mornings like he can’t wait to get away from him. Instead, he’s slower. 

Shiro’s usually always awake, the barest movement enough to stir him. He feels Keith’s purr cease in his chest, the change in his breathing. Shiro thinks that Keith must think he’s asleep, as every morning he carefully pulls himself away from Shiro, creeping away without making a sound, mindful not to shake the bed at all. 

It’s almost eerie how silent Keith can be when he summons the need. It’s almost a phantom pain, to feel Keith disappearing from behind him in waves, like he should be there but isn’t. Some sort of ghost of sensation that always makes Shiro roll over, blinking his eyes open only to find Keith already halfway across the room, sometimes already dressing for the day and braiding his hair. Sometimes, he sees Keith seated at the table, scribbling something in a notebook that he slams shut before Shiro can ever get close enough to look. Other times, he’s preparing the incense in the meditation corner or opening the wide windows to the morning light. 

He focuses on that feeling this morning, that strange sensation of Keith’s body pulling away like a tide. Shiro can’t explain the feeling it leaves him, not bereft but not peaceful, either. It feels like a goodbye, but unknowingly given. Keith is there and then he’s gone again. 

It feels a little like the first time Shiro ever looked up into the sky and knew, fully, that there was so much to the universe he would never see. 

Shiro lies still, waiting for any sort of sound— Keith opening his clothing trunk, the pull of a brush through his hair, even the sound of the door shutting behind him. But no. Keith is always silent. 

With a sigh, Shiro opens his eyes, prepared to turn over and see what Keith is doing, only to be faced with Keith staring straight at him, knelt down at the side of the bed and peering at him. 

He seems just as startled as Shiro feels. They both jerk back with a start. Keith turns his face away, his entire face flushing deep violet at being caught. 

“Oh,” Shiro says, stupidly, just a breathless sound as he feels himself start to blush, reactionary and uncontrollable. “Keith.”

He expects that Keith will flee immediately and avoid him for the rest of the day. That seems to be their general approach when it comes to awkward encounters. Shiro always gets the distinct impression that Keith is purposefully avoiding him. 

But, instead, Keith surprises him. He stays there, kneeling on the floor beside their bed. He takes a steadying breath, hands clenching where they rest on his folded legs. 

It must be the eye contact thing. Keith turns back to face him again, holding his gaze. So Shiro keeps still, staring into Keith’s eyes. Up close like this, he can see every little streak of color in his irises, a riot of purples and deep blues, whispers of grey. He knew Keith had the lightest downing of fur, but up close, he can see how thin and light it really is, almost not there at all, like velvet worn down. 

Shiro wonders, again, what Keith sees when he looks at him in turn. Shiro doesn’t dare move, for fear of breaking the moment. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t dare to even lick his chapped lips or breathe out another sigh. 

Shiro can’t say how long they both stay like that, staring into one another’s eyes. Shiro can’t know what Keith’s thinking, his only clues being Keith’s steady gaze and quirked forward ears. If he’s speaking through body language or subharmonics, Shiro can’t identify any of it. But there are no spoken words. 

And then Keith blinks, once, and looks away. He’s just as silent as he stands and moves away, no sound from his steps as he retreats to his corner of the room to prepare for the day. Shiro stays still, looking in the spot Keith once sat, before he sucks in a deep breath and sits up, pushing the blankets off his body. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, again, and Keith pauses, ears swiveling back towards him, his head turning, just a little, like he might glance over his shoulder at him. 

But Shiro doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to form the words needed to ask any of the questions folding and unfolding in his head. Everything is unbearably lost to him and he feels utterly without any road map. 

Fumbling, Shiro can’t help his helpless smile and laugh— self-deprecating and annoyed with himself. “I…” He shrugs, sighing. “Good morning?” 

Keith regards him, face turning enough to look at him, studying his face. Then, silently, he nods and turns back to prepare for the day. 

-

After that, Shiro is almost certain that Keith avoids him. They sit during breakfast and dinner, and return to their quarters during the night, but they aren’t always in the same meetings for negotiations and even if Shiro seeks Keith out during the breaks between talks, he can’t find him. Shiro tells himself he’s not disappointed. 

Shiro knows to be patient. He’ll come to understand his husband in time, he supposes. Perhaps Keith will be easier to get to know once they move to Daibazaal and Shiro must incorporate into Galran culture in earnest. 

With that in mind, Shiro spends far too many afternoons struggling to learn the Galran lessons downloaded onto his PADD, forgetting simple vocabulary that, really, he should _know_ by now. More often than not, it ends in frustration, Shiro powering down the program with a low grunt of self-loathing. 

He’s fluent in Terran, English, and Japanese. He’s passable in Chinese and Olkari. He can buckle down and focus his efforts on his Galran. The fact that, currently, his Arusian is better than his Galran is, frankly, embarrassing, given his marital status. 

Nothing can ever just be easy, in the end. 

“So…” Hunk says that day at lunch, another meal with Keith absent, “Things are going, uh, not so well, I take it?” 

Shiro hits send on a message he’s finished drafting to Princess Allura— off-planet for Altean humanitarian efforts she spearheads, his message mostly pleasantries and thinly buried _I wish you were here so I had someone to talk to_— and closes his eyes, schooling his expression away from the icy glare he wants to toss at Hunk. It isn’t Hunk’s fault. It’s no one’s fault. 

He gives Hunk a painfully neutral expression, taking a sip of Altean juniberry tea. Flatly, he says, “Things are fine.” 

Despite Shiro’s efforts, Hunk pales and shrinks away. “Oh. Uh. Yikes. Sorry I asked.” 

Shiro sighs and rubs at his temple with his thumb. He keeps clenching his jaw and he knows that’s no good for tension headaches. He draws in a slow breath. 

“Hunk,” he says, deciding to just bite the bullet. “What do you know about Galran sleeping habits?” 

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Great,” Shiro mutters, darkly. “Forget I asked.” 

-

_Give it time,_ Allura sends back in her message to Shiro. She’s talking about learning the Galran language, Shiro knows, but a small part of him clings to the words in all sections of his life, currently. 

Negotiations go relatively well. Shiro’s involved, but more as a pawn than any sort of lead diplomat. He’s an example of Terran acquiescence in the end— present for negotiations but not instrumental. 

It’s just as well: Shiro knows his place. He’s similar to an animal in a zoo, something to trot out with a superior, _See? The people of Earth are ready to make amends. Why can’t_ you, _too?_

The entire reason he and Keith remain on Altea despite not being fully involved in the politics, is presumably to give them a chance to get to know each other. That, and Shiro suspects the upper brass isn’t so eager to shove Shiro off to Daibazaal before they get their own bargaining chips.

For all his time in space and as a captain, Shiro’s never going to really understand the intrigues of interplanetary diplomacy. He really doesn’t want to. 

Today, the talks all morning center around the Qu’y Buffer Zone, a wide swath of space stretching between several different planets, each one laying claim to it as their territory. Nobody seems to take nicely to Shiro’s tentative suggestion it be set up as a neutral zone for trading routes. Shiro _knows_, ultimately, that will be what everyone decides on— but naturally it’s going to take two movements to get to that conclusion.

This is the part of diplomacy that Shiro absolutely _hates_. But there’s nothing to be done about it. 

As the meetings pause for the mid-day break— a wide chunk of time set aside so the Olviiitris people can hibernate for their moon cycle (and other species can enjoy a long lunch break)— Commander Iverson, head of the Garrison branch of the Terran delegation, pats him on the back to catch his attention. 

It’s a sympathetic touch, his mouth twisted into a grim, understanding line. “Why don’t you take the afternoon off?” he offers. “Enjoy the Altean sun? You’ve done enough.” 

Shiro hears it for the dismissal it is, as well as the pity. Iverson, like so many officers, view the Galra with thinly veiled distrust. Shiro knows many of them view his marriage as a case of very bad luck and misfortune. 

Their people have never gone to war, maybe, but the distrust runs deep. The entire point of all this is to stop tensions from risings and foster new understanding between their people. 

Shiro sighs and decides to take Iverson up on that offer of withdrawal. 

He sneaks into the Altean High Council’s hangar and convinces one of the Altean workers to lend him a leapfrog-flyer, a one-to-two person shuttle meant only for upper atmosphere travel, not space flight. 

Shiro’s always loved handling alien space crafts, and the Alteans’ flyers are always smooth as silk through the air, responding to his touch seemingly before he thinks to move. They aren’t built for speed the way Galran vipers are and they lack the sleek design of Terran hawk-flyers, but they’re consistent and steady. And that’s all he really needs. 

He doesn’t travel too far, ultimately— he knows the lowlands past the mountains are dangerous, an Altean nature preserve for their deadliest wildlife. He flies low and settles a few kilometers away from the High Council, outside the main city limits, setting the flyer down at the Altean equivalent of a trailhead. Several hiking paths spiderweb out from where he lands and Shiro chooses one at random, just wanting to walk and clear his head. 

He pauses, taking a picture to send to Allura. Proof he isn’t such a shut-in. 

-

He walks for a little under a varga, enjoying the Altean sun, as Iverson put it. It’s nice, really, to just be with himself and his own thoughts, well away from the High Council. 

In an ideal world, he’d love to just race across the planet, goading the Altean Nuuskob flyer to its speed limits, skirting around cliff faces and seeing just how far he can go before he’d have to turn back. In reality, though, a hike works just as well. 

Shiro figures he can find a quiet spot to rest, maybe work on some Galran language lessons until the late afternoon. With his plan in mind, Shiro follows the sound of water, seeking out one of the Altean streams. He enters a little clearing off the main path and finds Keith standing in the center of it. 

“Keith?” 

Keith seems just as shocked to see Shiro, too. He’s climbing out of a Galran-style flyer— not as large as nor made for space-travel like the Vipers— and turns at the sound of footsteps. Shiro would wonder if Keith were following him if not for the pure, unfiltered shock on Keith’s face. 

Once the shock eases away, Keith’s ears flick back, and Shiro wonders if perhaps Keith suspects Shiro of following_ him._ Everything in Keith’s body language spells ambivalence, if Shiro’s reading it correctly.

Shiro holds his hands up in mock-surrender, smiling in a way he hopes eases Keith’s tension. Keith’s ears stay pressed back against his skull, expression wary. 

“I guess we both had the same idea,” Shiro offers, still smiling. He takes a tentative step closer towards him. When Keith says nothing, Shiro elaborates, “I wanted to get away from all the meetings. I guess you did, too?” 

He waits, patiently, as Keith parses through the words, attempting to translate. 

Keith studies him and then says, bluntly, “Diplomats are too loud.” 

Shiro laughs, surprised. He can’t help but wonder if something’s lost in translation— he’s always found diplomats to be rather quiet and simpering, although Iverson admittedly has a great belly-laugh. 

Tone still laced with amusement, he says, “Nicely put.” 

Keith nods his head, acknowledging the words, and then turns away, seemingly content to ignore Shiro and let them go their separate ways. Shiro supposes he could let that happen— allow Keith to move on and see him again in the evening, where they’ll speak in short words and nothing more. 

_Give it time,_ had been Allura’s advice, after all. But Shiro’s never been great at following advice. And he’s always had his reputation of being stubborn, after all. 

So instead of turning away and leaving back down the path, Shiro steps forward and starts following Keith. Keith rounds around the flyer and Shiro shadows him, not invading his space but indicating he’s not about to leave. 

Clearly Keith was not expecting Shiro to do that, because the look he gives him is nothing short of utterly bewildered. 

Shiro’s smile returns as he asks, “Mind company?” 

Keith pauses, one hand touching one of the welded lines of the flyer, leaning against it, his ears flicking in confusion. He frowns at Shiro, deeply. 

“What of the brain?” 

“Oh,” Shiro says, stopping in his tracks. “No. I meant… Do you want to walk with me?” 

Keith’s ears perk up. He considers the question, folding his arms over his chest and surveying Shiro with a critical eye. 

“Why?” Keith finally asks. 

“I can leave you alone, if you want to be.” 

Keith processes the words, looking Shiro up and down, and then turning away, fidgeting with the braid slung over his shoulder. Shiro’s starting to think it might just be a nervous gesture for how often Keith fiddles with it, twisting and untwisting it around his fingers. 

“No,” Keith says. Then, with confidence, he adds, “Join me.” 

And so they walk, silent. Shiro didn’t expect that they’d have a wellspring of conversation to draw from, but Shiro doesn’t mind the quiet. He’s always been good at observing— partly from training and partly from necessity— and so he contents himself with watching the way Keith takes in their surroundings, trying to document what his expressions must mean in these contexts. 

Keith closes his eyes every time they pass from under a tree and the sun hits Keith’s face, like he’s soaking the heat up. Keith studies the Altean birds hopping from branch to branch with critical, assessing eyes, never missing a single flick of their wings. He has one ear pinned towards Shiro, never swaying, always picking up on the sounds Shiro makes as he walks beside him. The other swivels around, drinking in every noise. 

Eventually, the path tapers off into another little meadow, thick with Altean sealgrass and lining that same stream Shiro heard earlier, bubbling with purple water. Shiro marvels at that most of all, squatting down to examine the liquid as it runs over the smoothed river rocks. He remembers Allura mentioning that many of the waterways outside the city ran purple, a consequence of the natural zyo-crystal in the water— similar, Shiro supposes, to how iron can make Terran rivers turn a rusty red. 

Shiro rolls up his sleeve and sticks his hand into the water. Keith lets out an alarmed squawk behind him, and when Shiro turns to look at him, Keith’s giving Shiro a vaguely concerned look. Shiro draws his hand from the water, letting the purple water flick off his metal wrist with a little shake before showing its lack of damage. 

“Just wanted to feel it,” Shiro explains. Keith’s brow pinches. 

Keith still looks wary but cautiously approaches, kneeling down at the streambed to sit beside him, although the space between them is almost comically exaggerated— enough for two more people to sit between them. 

“It’s zyo-crystal water,” Shiro explains. “Does Daibazaal have it?” 

Keith shakes his head. “Our water is… beneath. We do not have oceans like Earth.” 

“Wow,” Shiro murmurs. “So what sort of weather do you have? Without a water cycle, do you have rain?” 

Keith frowns at him and Shiro realizes, belatedly, that Keith likely won’t be able to answer that question. He sighs. He should start carrying around a PADD to write down the questions he wants to ask Keith for when Hunk is there to help facilitate. 

Keith looks down, ears drooping. 

“It’s okay,” Shiro assures him quickly. “Sorry.” 

They sit by the stream in silence. Shiro watches the water sluice down its path, his hand still strangely warm from sticking it in the current. Keith studies their surroundings, one ear flicked back and the other still poised towards Shiro. Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro watches Keith look first at the stream, then the tops of the trees, and finally Shiro in equal, unerring measure. 

It reminds him of that same intensity Keith had when he looked at him, that morning in their bedroom. Shiro doesn’t know what any of it can mean, can’t begin to guess what Keith’s thinking. 

As usual. 

Shiro stretches after a time and stands, scooping up some rocks and twisting to skip them across the water, just to see what Keith will do. As he expected, Keith’s ears perk straight up, attentive and curious, and he watches the stone Shiro throws skip four times before sinking beneath the water’s surface. 

Keith turns towards Shiro, his eyes wide. 

Shiro goes slower this time, making sure Keith’s watching as he selects a flat stone, thumbs it in his hand, and twists his body. He flicks his wrist and sends the rock sailing. It hits the water three times before it sinks, its ripples swept away by the purple water. 

With that, Shiro turns to Keith, holding out a flat rock to him in invitation, unsure if Keith will take it. 

Keith studies the rock and then stands, mimicking Shiro’s stance before taking the stone in hand. Shiro watches as Keith carefully poises himself and then throws the rock. It skips five times. 

Keith turns towards Shiro with what Shiro can only describe as a triumphant smirk. It’s the most expressive Shiro’s seen Keith since they’ve met and when paired with his perked ears, he looks downright smug. 

Shiro scoops up more stones, lifting his eyebrows. “Beginner’s luck.” 

He doesn’t know if the phrase translates but, regardless, Shiro turns and throws the next stone. It skips four times before sinking. Narrowing his eyes, he tries again until it skips five times. He turns back towards Keith, grinning. 

It’s a stupid thing to be competitive about, but Shiro’s always been competitive. 

But that seems to be a trait he shares with his husband. 

Keith surveys the rocks on the bank with critical assessment, deigning to pick up only the best ones. He collects them in his hand and shuffles his feet until he deems himself fully positioned. Only then does he skip the first rock. The first skips four times, the second five times, and the third another four-time skip. 

He still looks smug. Shiro thinks, pathetically, that confidence looks really, really good on Keith. There’s the little glint of a fang in the curve of his smile, his eyes dark and molten, his chin tipped up. 

He imagines, for a ridiculous second, what Keith would look like if Shiro were to tell him that he’s handsome— wonders what his reaction would be. 

Instead of actually saying it, though, Shiro focuses on skipping the stones, trying to one-up him. And Keith does the same. At one point, Keith even manages a record seven skips.

They keep competing until, finally, there are no flat stones left on their patch of the bank. That, and a massive Altean slumberfish jumped full-bodied from the water to snatch up the last stone Shiro tried to throw, and that somehow felt like both defeat and victory at once. Hard to top that. 

Shiro settles in the grass beyond the stony streamside, sighing. The sealgrass is soft, almost like feathers beneath his palms, the ground sinking beneath his weight and buoying him. 

Keith watches him before he steps forward, each movement cautious before he settles in the sealgrass. There’s still a wide space between them, but Shiro imagines it might be a little closer than before, room for only one person between them rather than two. 

Shiro will count that as a small victory. The fact that they’re here together at _all_, rather than Keith running away in his flyer is proof enough of that. 

The afternoon sun is heavy in the sky and Shiro’s stomach growls. He presses his hand against it absently before he falls onto his back, looking up at the sky. 

“I should have brought food,” Shiro muses aloud to himself. 

The words leave him and, after a pause, Keith leans into his view, hovering above him. He holds out a Terran apple, drawn from the large inner pocket of his long tunic. 

It takes Shiro a beat to recognize what he’s looking at. He sits up, blinking. 

“Wow,” he says. “Where did you get that?” 

“Hunk.” 

“Of course,” Shiro says, smiling.

Keith gestures, holding the apple out to him. Shiro hesitates before reaching out, but once he’s holding the apple, Keith seems satisfied, his ears flicking forward. He gives a little nod, leaning back from Shiro. 

“Thank you, Keith.” 

Keith nods his head again then just stares at the apple in Shiro’s hand. Shiro realizes he’s waiting for Shiro to eat. So, Shiro takes a large bite of the apple with a pleased sigh. He can’t remember the last time he had any food from home. The Alteans grow a passable potato, but everything else Terran tends to resist Altea’s horrible rain. 

He closes his eyes and lets out a pleased breath at the first burst of sweetness on his tongue. “Wow,” Shiro sighs as he swallows the first bite. “Fuck, that’s good.” 

He opens his eyes to find Keith still watching him. He’s not sure if he’s ever going to be used to the intense way Keith studies him, silent and beholden. As always, he wonders what Keith sees, what he’s thinking. 

Cautiously, Shiro reaches to the small of his back and draws his wedding blade from its sheath. He hesitates, remembering the last time he committed a blade-related faux pas. But, Keith simply glances at it before his eyes flicker back up to Shiro, watching. So, Shiro uses the blade to slice the apple in half and offers the uneaten part to Keith. 

If Keith’s insulted by Shiro using his ceremonial blade for something so trivial, he doesn’t show it. Instead, Keith takes the apple, holding it delicately between his fingers. 

“Try it,” Shiro urges. 

Keith’s eyes finally slot down to the apple half, studying it with the tiniest twitch of his nose. Then, he chomps into it perhaps a bit aggressively. Shiro notes the flash of a sharp fang as he chews. Keith’s nose wrinkles as he processes the taste and then seems to decide he likes it, as he swallows the rest of it— core, seeds, and all— in two short bites. 

“Good, right?” Shiro asks. Keith nods. 

Shiro finishes his apple half and licks his fingers to clean away the last sticky traces, blushing a little at the way Keith’s eyes follow the movement of his tongue. He wipes his hand subtly through the sealgrass, ducking his head and clearing his throat. 

Silence falls between them once again. With a deep breath, Shiro lets himself feel hopeful— skipping stones together and eating an apple is hardly the stuff of an epic friendship, but it seems like a good start. It’d be a shame to waste this opportunity. 

“Keith,” Shiro says seriously, twisting around to face Keith properly, tucking his legs beneath him. 

Keith is still for a moment and then mirrors him, shifting his seated position and putting his hands on his knees. He gives Shiro the smallest nod. 

Shiro’s unsure what to say. It’s not the first time that’s been the case, and the anxiety squirms inside him. He wishes he were better at Galran. He wishes he knew the right words to say in order to convey to Keith what he wants. It’d be a shame to squander the chance this afternoon has given him. 

Keith looks at him, expectant and unblinking.

Shiro sighs out, deciding the best route would be the same— forthcoming, clear. He swallows, running the Galran words over in his mind a few times before he dares speak it, “_I would like to know you better._” 

Keith looks so startled that, for a moment, Shiro fears he’s somehow mistranslated the words and managed to insult him anyway or say something completely nonsensical. Oh god, what if _“to know”_ meant something _different_ in Galran? He’ll need to check with Hunk. 

Keith blinks at him several times, ears flicking to the sides, not quite flattening. His voice is so quiet when he asks, “You do not hate me?” 

Out of the replies Keith could have given him, this is far from the one Shiro expected. He blinks at Keith in surprise, unsure how to proceed. 

“W— why would I hate you?” Shiro asks, puzzled. He knows they’ve had, perhaps, a rockier start than others, but he hates the thought that Keith has somehow interpreted Shiro’s words as hatred. 

But Keith shakes his head, looking down. “Not _me._ But… me. Galra.” 

That serves only to puzzle Shiro even more. “Why would I hate the Galra? Because I’m Terran?” 

It’s true that the tension between their people is undeniable, even without any formal declaration of war or animosity. But Shiro knows plenty of people who appreciate the Galra or are curious about them.

Keith frowns, chewing the inside of his cheek, and shakes his head. He looks frustrated, struggling to gather the words necessary to help Shiro understand. Shiro can only be sympathetic to that frustration. 

“You. The Galra captured you,” Keith finally says. 

“Allegedly.” 

It’s such an immediate response that he doesn’t realize he’s said it until Keith frowns at him, uncomprehending. It’s been drilled into Shiro’s head, again and again, after struggling in the arena, struggling his way out, struggling his way through his recovery, and then faced with endless bureaucracy from his higher-ups and Galran ambassadors. 

Allegedly captured. Allegedly Galran fighting arena. Allegedly. Allegedly. _Allegedly. _

“I… There’s no proof,” Shiro offers again, hoping the translator will pick those words up. “No one knows for sure it was Galra.” 

But Keith shakes his head. He lifts his hand, reaching for Shiro. He doesn’t touch him, but his fingertips trace the line of the deep scar carving over the bridge of his nose. 

“_Dhiscaillii_ muzzles,” Keith says, words stilted but pressing. “They make this scar. Only _Dhiscaillii_. And only Galra use _Dhiscaillii._” 

His fingers hover a moment more, almost making contact, close enough that Shiro nearly feels the phantom ghost of touch, but then Keith snatches his hand back, scooting backwards to make more space between them once more. The words leave Shiro in complete stillness, though, suddenly breathless and his heart pounding hard in his chest. 

It’s the first time someone’s ever acknowledged the truth of it. Not allegedly. Not supposedly. Not possibly. Not _There’s no way to prove it was the Galra, Shirogane, so I’m ordering you to just fucking drop it_. 

Just Keith, of all people, acknowledging what’s happened to him. 

Shiro braces himself as Keith studies him, half-expecting some sort of pity, some sort of platitudes or justification. Keith is, after all, a Galran prince. 

Instead, Keith says, in gravelly, formal Galran: “_If you wish for revenge, I will battle at your side._” 

Shiro’s translator whirls in his ear, immediately processing the words. It’s similar enough to many Galran battle cries that the universal translator has no issue translating the words for him. 

Intelligently, Shiro says, “Huh?” 

Keith is only serious as he stares at him, eyes dark and threatening. “_Your pain is my pain,_” Keith tells him, the Galran rich and fluid. “_A mate must be protected._” 

The words leave Shiro dumbfounded. It sounds similar enough to the vows at their wedding, formal enough that Shiro figures it must be some rite. Shiro almost wants to laugh at the words— or cry. They’re not meant for him, not really. 

“They’re your people,” Shiro answers. 

Keith snorts as he processes the words. It’s an inelegant sound and, somehow, charming. 

“_You_ are my people now, Shiro,” Keith says. 

Shiro can’t imagine he’s worth the sudden, unerring loyalty. He understands the importance of mates in Galran culture, in theory— has heard many stories of mates protecting each other in battle, taking on the missions of their fallen lovers for personal vendettas. 

It’s another thing entirely to see it directed towards him. And unwarranted, too. It’s cultural, not something Keith truly feels— Keith, in the end, doesn’t know Shiro. Shiro isn’t worthy of Keith’s words. 

None of it is true. And Keith doesn’t deserve that. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Shiro assures him. “You don’t know me.” 

“I have no choice,” Keith answers, voice going quieter, ears pressing against his skull. 

Shiro bows his head, sucking in a deep breath. “You _should_ have the choice.” 

He looks up when Keith makes a soft sound, something between a grunt and sigh, eyes narrowed as he regards Shiro, expression steeled. 

“I know that mates are important to the Galra,” Shiro elaborates. “And I know that you didn’t get a choice in me.” He has no idea how much the translator will clarify for Keith, or how much his own knowledge of Terran will assist, but now that the words are pouring out of them, he can’t call them back again. “Defending me, taking up my battles, pledging yourself to me— you shouldn’t feel you _must_ do that, Keith. It should be your choice. It isn’t… obligation.” 

Keith is silent, eyes falling shut as he focuses on the words. His mouth moves, just a little, as he translates the words, his brow furrowing and ears flicking back to press so close against his skull that they nearly disappear beneath his hair. Shiro isn’t sure if he’s insulted or concentrating, or both. 

He sits in silence, waiting. Finally, Keith sucks in a deep breath, his shoulders lifting before, with a sharp sigh, he forces himself to relax.

He opens his eyes, gazing at Shiro. “You are my mate,” he finally says. “You are above all else.” 

They’re nice words. Shiro imagines it’d be even nicer to hear if it were coming from someone you loved. Shiro sighs, sure that Keith has misunderstood despite it all. And this is definitely not something he wants to bring up with Hunk. 

“Yes,” he says, cautiously. “Mates should be that. But…” He ducks his head. “You don’t really know me, Keith.” 

When Shiro glances up at Keith again, Keith merely tilts his head, frowning. “Do you believe yourself unworthy?” 

And isn’t that the heart of it. Shiro’s nearly stunned by Keith’s observation. But then again, it’s a lot to take in at once. Keith goes days avoiding him like touching him would cause him to burst into flames. He’s apparently operated under the assumption that Shiro should hate him. And yet here he is, swearing fidelity to Shiro, even against his own people. 

Shiro feels entirely out of his element and isn’t sure if he’s maybe fucked this entire thing up anyway. 

“I don’t know,” he finally confesses and it feels entirely too honest. Keith looks like he wants to press, if only he had the words, but Shiro just laughs, dismissively. “Sorry, I just… I’m not used to this.” 

“To what?” 

“Being a priority,” Shiro says, unsure if the translator or Keith’s grasp of Terran will assist in the translation. Keith looks confused still, yes, but more vaguely devastated on Shiro’s behalf than anything else, his eyebrows pinching together. 

Shiro doesn’t know how much Keith can mean any of this. If, in the end, these are only empty words fueled on by a cultural expectation. Regardless, Shiro’s not planning any revenge expeditions to find the (allegedly) Galran fighting arena and exacting his vengeance against those who hurt him. 

He hurt plenty of people, too, all for the sake of staying alive. He doesn’t need more reminding. 

The silence is too heavy. Haltingly, Shiro presses onward— anything to lighten the mood, anything to keep Keith from asking him why he feels unworthy. It feels too much like their first conversation— _ Why do you think you aren’t a great warrior?_— and Shiro isn’t prepared to offer any sort of answer. 

So, instead, he returns to Keith’s original question. 

“… I don’t hate the Galra,” Shiro clarifies. “Or you.” 

Keith looks away, watching the zyo-crystal water in silence. After a moment, he nods, accepting the words. 

This time, it’s Shiro who studies Keith’s face— watching the way his mouth thins out, the darting of his eyes as he struggles to look out at the water. 

“But what about you?” Shiro asks. “What do you think about Humans? Hate us?” 

Keith’s expression turns curious then. Shiro doesn’t know how to describe the little smile that tucks into the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes go gentle and his ears flick away from Shiro.

“I do not.” 

Shiro hums to indicate that Keith should clarify. Keith’s eyes flicker to him, curiously, at the sound. Shiro wonders if his hum sounds like how subharmonics are meant to for the Galran ear. 

“You are the second human I’ve ever met,” Keith says. He still watches the water down below as it swirls over the river rocks. “My father is the first.” 

“Oh!” Shiro can’t hold back his surprise. “You’re half-human!” 

He blushes at his outburst, but Keith still wears that tiny smile, shaking his head. He glances back at Shiro, cautiously, as if testing him. 

“Yes,” he says. “I am.” 

Now that Keith’s said it, it’s a wonder that Shiro hadn’t realized sooner— or at least suspected. Maybe it’s just that a person is always predisposed to find the similarities in others, to find some touchstone in aliens. But, looking at Keith, he thinks that he can see the telltale signs of human ancestry. 

The Galra are a wide, adaptive race. To try to paint one clear picture of an average Galra is entirely impossible with how varied they are. Due to their isolation, half-Galra are not well known, unlike thousands of decaphoebs ago when the empire was expansive and crushing across the universe. Gone are those days. 

Still, it’s as simple as seeing something like Keith’s bent leg, a triangular shaped kneecap poking through the too-tight trouser fabric. Galra don’t have triangular kneecaps. 

“Who is your father?” Shiro asks, curiosity getting the best of him. If Keith’s offered it up, he figures it must be safe to ask. 

“A good man,” Keith says, quietly. He smiles. “He taught me Terran. Some.” 

Shiro nods, giving that same humming sound again— it seems to soothe Keith, his expression softening, looking less tense at the corners of it. He’s not clenching his jaw. 

“Dad, he— crashed,” Keith says, voice quiet. “On Daibazaal.” His words are lilted, quiet— a story he’s heard several times and knows how to recite from memory. “My mother saved him. He lost contact with Earth. But… I’ve always—” He frowns, then switches to Galran, “_I’ve always wanted to know as much as I can about Terran culture._” 

Shiro nods. Fumbling, he offers, “_I want to know about the Galra._” 

Keith nods. “That’s why… I said yes to marrying you.” 

Keith doesn’t look at him, fingertips picking at a loose strand of his trousers before thinking better of it and tugging absently on his braid, eyes elsewhere. 

It surprises Shiro, to think there was a reason beyond necessity that would motivate Keith to marry a stranger.

“If your father is human,” Shiro says dumbly, “You seem to be proof of an alliance all on your own.” He laughs. “Guess we didn’t need to get married.” 

Keith is still, eyes on the water, his fingertips twisted around the loose strands at the end of his braid. He doesn’t say anything to Shiro’s observation. He closes his eyes, mouth thinned out. 

“Your father…” Shiro begins. 

“Yes?” 

“What’s he like?” 

“He was…” Keith pauses, but Shiro doesn’t miss the use of the past tense— can’t imagine that’d be a mistake on Keith’s part. “A good man,” Keith says, softly, his eyes going distant and melancholy, absorbed in some sort of memory not meant for Shiro. “Funny. Big laugh.” He gestures with his hands, blooming out from his chest— a booming laugh, Shiro imagines. “He loved… ‘barbeque’?” 

“Oh! Yeah,” Shiro agrees. “Have you ever had it?” 

Keith shakes his head. “Dad said he needed a particular wood… Mesquite? Nothing like it on Daibazaal.” 

“Maybe someday, we can visit Earth,” Shiro offers. “I’ll bring you to my favorite barbeque place. There’re different kinds of barbeque, too. Lots of food to try.” 

He offers it easily but wonders if Keith knows he means it, a promise he’d keep. Maybe it means very little to a stranger. Maybe it feels only like a platitude. 

Keith, though, turns his head a little to look at him again, finally. As always, their eyes meet and hold. Shiro doesn’t blink and doesn’t look away, hoping that maybe the gesture would carry the sincerity behind it. 

Keith’s ears perk up, flicking back towards Shiro once more. Shiro isn’t sure why that feels like a victory. 

After a breath, Keith almost smiles again, a flickering thing. It tucks into the corner of his mouth. 

“On Daibazaal, there are the _Vrantiperzabals_… Lizards? Dad called them lizards. They taste like mesquite, he said. You can try them, when we go to Daibazaal.” 

Shiro smiles back. “I look forward to it, Keith.” 

Keith nods. He looks down, staring at his hands. “You… are kind for listening.” 

“Thanks for telling me about him,” Shiro answers. “And, Keith… Whatever questions you have,” Shiro offers, “About Earth and Terran culture… I’d be happy to answer them.”

Keith’s brow scrunches. “Hunk has told me some things, too.” 

Shiro nods. That much makes sense. “Hunk is a good person.”

“Yes,” Keith says. “He is.” 

Shiro’s at least glad that Keith’s getting along well with Hunk. The more humans Keith can meet, the more satisfied he might be if his goal in this marriage is to know Terran culture better. 

Satisfied with the scope of their conversation, Keith gives one final nod and then lies onto his back, spreading his arms up and staring up at the Altean sun with a deep exhale, just sunbathing. He looks the very image of a lazy cat, just soaking up the sunbeams. All that’s missing is a flicking tail. 

“I really like Korean barbeque,” Shiro announces to the water, glancing over at Keith. Keith pops open one eye, one ear tweaked towards Shiro’s voice. “It’s sweeter than the kind your dad liked. But really good.” 

Keith hums softly and closes his eye again, just lounging. “I will try it someday.” 

Shiro lets him lie there, soaking in the sun. He sighs, tilting his head back and letting the sun kiss his face, too. 

It’s easy enough to fall into a silence. Shiro likes to think— hopes, maybe— that it isn’t awkward this time. That it’s just the two of them, enjoying a quiet moment out in the semi-wilderness. 

Maybe, someday, everything will feel just as easy. 

The anxiety plucks inside Shiro. He never found himself anxious about this sort of thing. He never would describe himself as a people person, but he’s always been able to speak with people. The consequence of his job has always been that he hasn’t had a lot of time to just linger, or to focus on just one individual. He’s friendly with plenty of people, sure, but Shiro’s never had a close friend before. He isn’t really sure how to make it happen— naturally or otherwise. 

Maybe it’s selfish to hope for friendship with Keith. 

But he also thinks that, maybe, this is the first time he’s seen the real Keith— relaxing in the sunlight, his ears twitching towards Shiro as he sits and lies out on the grass beside him, hands folded on his stomach. He seems less like a regal prince and more like any other guy, snuck away from responsibilities and just wanting a quiet moment away from it all.

Eventually, though, Keith rolls onto his side, observing Shiro with a quiet sort of calm. Shiro waits, sensing that Keith’s collecting the words he wishes to say. 

Finally, Keith offers, quietly, “It does not bother you that I am Galra.” 

“No.”

“Does it bother you that I am only part Galra?” 

“Of course not.” 

Keith slumps in relief. Shiro wants to laugh, but it feels too heartbreaking to fathom that, somehow, this should be noteworthy for Keith. 

“Is that surprising?” 

Keith’s mouth thins, something bitter flashing in his eyes. “_Few think of me kindly. Fewer still thought of my father kindly. Resentment._” 

It’s strange— and heartbreaking— to hear, especially from all Keith said that first day about his clan valuing knowledge. What’s more an avenue to knowledge than a gateway into a new culture entirely? A new way of living? 

“That’s their loss,” Shiro says, pouring all his conviction into his voice. “You must have so many experiences and ideas. And you’re their prince, aren’t you?” 

“We are not princes in the way you think of princes.” Keith struggles to explain and gives up, letting the translator carry the words and hoping they’d translate properly. “_To be a prince means you are a potential leader from your clan. Each clan would vran’par av Kral Zera wy tyn’vree, polen-bol. I am a prince but not t’virt wenvrapar._” 

Shiro can only understand some of it in its context, but nods regardless, tentatively. 

Keith looks down. “I do not wish to be emperor. But if my clan asked it of me, I would.” His ears flick back, pressing to his skull. “I am… no leader.” 

“What do you want to be instead?” 

Keith blinks and looks up at him, surprised— as if he’s never been asked such a question before. The thought twists up in Shiro’s chest. 

“I want to fly,” Keith says. “_I want to see the stars._” 

Keith waits, biting the inside of his cheek. Shiro smiles, hoping it’s reassuring when he answers, “I do, too.” 

Keith lets out a breath, ears flicking up again. The words seem to bolster Keith and Shiro doesn’t miss the vulnerable way he presents the words to Shiro, offering them cautiously. “I like… drawing. I like exploring the universe. I don’t…” His brow scrunches. “I am no leader. I do not think… _I don’t think I can be a good leader, no matter how hard I wish it._” 

Shiro lets the words wash over him, giving the translator a moment to process. He shakes his head. “I think wishing to be a good leader already demonstrates that you’re heading in the right direction. But… there’s nothing wrong with wanting to explore the universe a little, too.” He smiles, tilting his head. “The light of knowledge, right?” 

Keith blinks at him, surprised, his mouth slipping open in wonder before he snaps it shut again. He glances down, his cheeks flushing purple. Shiro thinks that maybe, for a moment, Keith smiles. 

“I might not know you well yet, Keith,” Shiro says, gently. “But, I’d like to see what kind of leader you become. Whether it’s leader of your clan or leader of an exploratory team someday.” 

Keith tilts his head, absorbing the words. He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but there’s something gentler in his eyes. 

“You are kind.” 

Shiro shakes his head. “This should be anybody’s response. If it isn’t, then they’re mistaken.” 

The thought seems to amuse Keith, one corner of his mouth tilting up into an almost-smile. “What of you?”

“What about me?” 

“What do you wish to be?” 

Shiro breathes out a soft laugh, shrugging his shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Keith mimic the gesture and it makes him smile more. 

“I always wanted to see the stars, too,” Shiro confesses. “That’s all I wanted.” 

Keith nods. “But you are here instead.” 

Shiro turns to look at Keith. Keith meets his eyes calmly, no judgement there, but some sort of resignation, his ears flicking up and then back down again as if unsure where to settle. 

“I don’t mind that I’m here,” Shiro says. He smiles. “Maybe I was meant to meet you and your clan. I can’t say the light of knowledge doesn’t call to me, too.” 

Keith’s brows pinch together as he struggles with the words. He gestures to his translator helplessly, indicating that something’s been lost. 

“The light of knowledge,” Shiro says again. “I like the idea.” He points to Keith. “Meeting you… gives me knowledge.” He looks away with a soft laugh, not waiting to see Keith’s expression, how it might change at those words. “And besides… if we both want to see the stars, what’s stopping us?” 

He hears Keith take a breath and when he turns to look at him again, Keith’s staring at him, something hopeful in his eyes. 

“So,” Shiro says. “If you want to see the stars, does that mean you know how to fly that flyer you borrowed?” 

“Yes,” Keith answers. “Of course.” 

Shiro’s eyebrows lift. “Don’t suppose you’d like to show me? Bet I could beat you in a race.” 

Keith wrinkles his nose. “Altean flyers are _dy’pak._ Too slow.” 

Shiro grins. “That sounds like an excuse, Your Highness.” 

Keith’s ears perk up and then flick back as he narrows his eyes at Shiro. Shiro hopes that it isn’t true anger, but a competitive spark he’s seen before in Keith, skipping rocks on a river. That smug look from before returns, curving Keith’s smile in a sharpened edge. 

Keith stands, cracking his neck in a way that would be vaguely intimidating if Shiro weren’t arrested by how beautiful he looks in the sunlight. 

“We will see,” Keith announces with a quiet sort of promise.

And really, Shiro can’t wait to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another round of thanks to Janel, for brainstorming help, and to Gen, for reading this over. ♥

_We will see,_ Keith had promised him and, it seems, intends to make good on that promise; Shiro follows Keith as they hike back towards Keith’s leapfrog-flyer in the meadow he left it in. Shiro figures they’ll part here and Shiro will hike back for his own flyer.

Instead, Keith tilts his head and nods towards his ship. He waits for Shiro to climb in first before hoisting himself up after him, ducking over the control panel. He clicks away and pulls up the clock-setting in the leapfrog to start a timer. 

Then, with a sweeping gesture and a quirk of his eyebrow, he lets Shiro settle into the pilot’s seat. 

Shiro sits there, considering. He glances at Keith as he moves to settle behind the pilot’s chair. His Altean flyer is built for one and it’s a tight squeeze. Shiro leans forward to make space for Keith to loop his arm around the back of the chair and hold on. 

For a brief moment, Shiro entertains the thought of he and Keith on a hoverbike instead, racing along the deserts on Earth— Keith’s arm around Shiro’s waist instead of the chair’s back. 

Blushing, he says, “Hold on tight.” 

He taps the timer and then guns it. The ship takes a moment to respond, wheezing at the sudden request for acceleration, but Shiro is relentless— he races the flyer over a long stretch of flat land, racing towards the mountains lining the Altean Nature Preserve. 

It isn’t the type of racing Shiro tends to love the most— not neck and neck with another opponent, but more a race against the clock. The terrain is too flat, not enough obstacles and adventures, no cliffs to skirt or dive off of. Then again, Keith isn’t strapped in properly and such theatrics might be too dangerous in the bumbling Altean leapfrog. 

But, this type of racing serves its purpose and he manages to nudge the ship into a steady acceleration that leaves Keith chuffing behind him as he clings to the back of Shiro’s pilots chair. It’s not quite a laugh from the prince, but it’s definitely amusement. He thinks he hears the lick of a purr, too, although it’s difficult to know for sure over the roar of a straining Altean engine. 

When Shiro reaches the border into the nature preserve, he stops just at the swell of the first foothill. He huffs a delighted laugh and lands the flyer, punching the clock to stop the time. He turns his head to grin back up at Keith. 

“Think you can beat that?” 

Keith hums, pushing Shiro out of the seat and dropping down into it, smirking. “Yes. _I know I can_.” 

He barely gives Shiro time to hang on as he punches the start button on the clock, whips the leapfrog around, and races back towards their starting position. 

Shiro can do nothing but hold on, clinging. Keith doesn’t spare Shiro the same consideration of his precarious state, whipping around obstacles with startling precision, dipping and weaving across the landscape enough that Shiro nearly topples into the side paneling. Shiro’s never been more thrilled as a passenger. 

“Holy shit,” Shiro breathes once Keith beats his time by a solid three tics. He slumps against the back of the chair, peeking his head over and watching Keith tilt his head back to look up at him, smug. “That was amazing, Keith.” 

Surprise touches Keith’s expression— there and gone again— and then, cautiously, he smiles wide, radiating warmth. Shiro definitely hears a purr of pleasure now. 

“I’d love to see what you look like up there,” Shiro says, jerking his chin up towards the sky. He imagines what Keith would look like behind a Galran viper, weaving between asteroids, zipping through space as fluid as water. 

Shiro wants to see it, an ache deep in his chest. 

He and Keith spend the afternoon taking turns racing back and forth over the Altean plateau, well past the Olviitris hibernation period. Shiro got his afternoon leave but he half-expects Keith needing to bow out at some point. Aside from a glance at the time midway through the afternoon, though, Keith gives no indication he has anywhere else he should be. 

Shiro gets a message from Hunk and from Allura, both, but he dismisses the notifications, content to just focus his time and energy on Keith. He’s making progress— he doesn’t want to miss an opportunity to know Keith better. 

That, and he wants to see just how hard Keith can push the flyer. 

-

They race each other well into the Altean evening, the sun sinking behind the mountains. It’s the most fun Shiro can remember having in a long time— all without them having to talk much. One races, the other holds on for dear life, and then tries to beat the other’s score. It’s a language built around just the thrill of racing and the numbers ticking up on the clock. 

Shiro wins the last race, beating out Keith’s time by the barest whisper of a tick. He absolutely feels smug about it but tries to rein it in, just grinning at Keith.

“That was fun,” Shiro tells Keith as he parks the leapfrog next to the one Shiro left at the Altean trailhead. As the engine hums down, taking a much-needed rest, Shiro opens the flyer’s hatch and hops out.

Nothing’s changed much about the land around them, but Shiro feels like something’s changed. He feels buoyant, like gravity’s suddenly changed on Altea and he’s two steps away from floating off into the sky.

Shiro turns to look up at Keith as he gathers his excess robes in one hand. Shiro nearly offers his hand to help him down, but Keith hops onto the ground before Shiro can make the gesture. Keith dusts himself off, looking a little shy, his ears tucked forward. 

“Yes,” he says in answer to Shiro’s words. He looks up at Shiro, eyes gentle. “Shiro, you… _You are a worthy opponent._” 

Shiro laughs, the sound bubbling out of him before he can think to control it. “You too, Keith.” He grins. “Not too bad for something that’s— what was it? Too slow— _ dy’vak?_” 

Keith’s mouth quirks briefly with amusement. “_Dy’pak._” 

“Yes, that.” He heaves a sigh. Someday, Galran will come naturally to him. 

Shiro tilts his head back, looking at the sky. The sunset’s still staining the Altean sky a deep blue and pink, just the sweetest hint of the stars peeking through the atmosphere with the sun’s departure. He wishes he could just sprawl out in the sealgrass and stare up at the sky, Keith beside him. 

“It’ll be nice to race you up there, too,” he says. 

“Yes.” Keith tilts his head, looking up at the sky, too. “It will be nice to best you.”

Shiro snorts a delighted sound. His mouth twitches, threatening a smile. “Too bad we can’t stay out. I’d love to look at the Altean constellations. Could do that all night.” 

“You like the stars.”

“I _love_ them,” Shiro agrees to Keith’s quiet observation. When he looks back down, Keith’s blushing. His eyes skirt away when Shiro tries to meet his eyes. 

After a long pause, Keith offers, quietly, “We could stay.” 

Shiro smiles. “_I hear your words_,” he murmurs, but shakes his head. “Allura warned me that the forests aren’t safe at night. Too many nocturnal creatures. I’m not sure if we could actually relax.” 

Keith puzzles over the words, looking mournful as he struggles to translate. 

Gently, Shiro clarifies, “_It’s… danger?_” 

“_Dangerous,_” Keith corrects with a nod. 

Shiro nods, too, blushing a little at his own little failure; at least Keith is kind about it. “_It’s dangerous._” 

“I would protect you,” Keith says with just a touch of stubbornness. It makes Shiro smile, unused to it. It seems Keith hasn’t listened to Shiro’s earlier insistence that he doesn’t need to do such things for him. 

He knows Keith’s protectiveness isn’t over Shiro as a person, but a mate for another mate. It isn’t quite the same thing, in Shiro’s mind— Keith’s protectiveness is born from cultural expectation or, perhaps, deeply encoded instinct. Keith would just as well behave this way for anyone else who married him instead. 

Still, it’s a nice thought to think that Keith might want him to be happy. 

“Maybe next time,” Shiro says. 

Shiro watches Keith frown, his ears swiveling back behind him. A moment later, there’s the sound of a twig snapping deep in the brush beyond their flyers. Both Shiro and Keith turn instinctively towards the sound. 

“What—” Shiro begins. 

Keith says something in Galran, but Shiro doesn’t quite hear it when the sound of a growl erupts through the air and a massive creature emerges from the brush. Shiro doesn’t immediately recognize the creature, not being any sort of expert on Altean creatures. 

It looks like some sort of cross between bear and lizard, growling low and glinting fangs in the twilight. Its tail whips around, its many eyes staring at the flyer before shifting towards Shiro and Keith, piercing. 

Shiro feels a pit drop into his stomach, adrenaline coursing through him. Allura’s warned him before about the creatures here. Keith and Shiro spent the afternoon flying low to the ground, whipping up wind and debris— undoubtedly disturbing the creatures in the nature preserve. 

Even without the danger here, Shiro feels regret to have caused the creatures distress. 

“Keith,” Shiro murmurs. He touches Keith’s shoulder and Keith jolts beneath his touch but doesn’t jerk away. “Get behind me and get into your ship.” 

Keith’s staring at the creature, one ear quirking back towards Shiro as he speaks and then flattening against his skull. 

“No,” Keith says, definitively. His hand falls to the small of his back and he draws his blade. It transforms in his hand, lengthening in a burst of glowing Luxite. His free arm whips out, blocking Shiro from stepping forward. 

Shiro blinks in surprise at the gestures— at the surety in Keith’s stance, the immediacy of his protective stance. Shiro knew of the blades’ ability to transform— although such an ability seems beyond Shiro’s blade— but it’s another thing entirely to see it before him. 

The creature reacts to the glow of the sword, the predatory glint in Keith’s eyes, and lets out a louder growl edging into a roar.

A deep cold runs through Shiro. He blinks and he’s back in an arena, an opponent towering above him, leaving him scrambling to take cover, to find protection, to fight back—

Keith’s body is a coiled spring, ready to strike. The creature moves on instinct. Shiro moves on instinct, too. 

Shiro doesn’t think. The creature leaps forward and Shiro moves. 

He yanks Keith’s arm away and steps forward, smooth and focused. He lifts his arm just as the creature comes sweeping down towards them. It’s a stupid move— hardly defensive, no weapon in his hand. He has a weapon at his back but it’s heavy against his spine, not something he’s used to reaching for. When he had to fight for his life on a daily basis, he was better at this.

Keith makes a distressed sound of surprise as Shiro steps between him and the creature, arm lifted. 

The creature’s jaw connects and then clenches tight around Shiro’s metal arm. Shiro’s used to using it to protect himself— used it plenty in the arena, blocking hits from inferior weapons and the like— but this creature’s teeth are strong, crunching down into the metal. Shiro hears a sickening whirl as his arm interior structures collapse around the teeth and his hand clenches into a fist, unable to unfurl. 

The pain sparks up his arm like the creature bit through his flesh arm and he gives a wild cry before he can think to stop it. He clenches his eyes shut and feels the pain ricochet down his body. He’s back in the arena, fighting creatures twice his size and just desperate, so desperate, to make it out alive. His world has narrowed into one tunneled moment— fight, protect, get away, _survive._

He hears Keith growl and lurch around him, hears the creature stagger back, releasing Shiro’s arm. When he opens his eyes, he watches Keith swipe at the creature with the blade, watches the creature reel back, terrified or on the defensive, Shiro isn’t sure. He doesn’t understand the creature’s stance, its habits, its reason for attacking or retreating. 

It occurs to him to mourn if the creature’s killed because they were foolish enough to wander out after sunset, because they were thoughtless enough to disturb the wildlife. 

But Keith doesn’t kill the creature. He slings his sword through the air in delicate arcs and the creature recoils until it gives a pained shriek and retreats into the forest. Shiro can hear it breathing, maybe waiting for them to turn their backs before it strikes again. 

Counter to what any warrior should do, Keith does just that— turning from the creature and hurrying to Shiro. 

All of Shiro’s instincts scream at him— fight, chase, hide, survive, survive, survive— 

He flinches when Keith approaches, curling into himself. He feels pathetic, body frozen. He didn’t even realize he’d fallen to his knees until Keith kneels before him. 

Shiro’s eyes skitter towards the underbrush, where the creature lurks. But Keith ignores everything but Shiro, hooking his arms under Shiro’s knees and supporting his back. He lifts him easily, like Shiro weighs nothing. 

Shiro forgets to be afraid, going breathless as Keith carries him easily into the flyer. He sets Shiro down gently, slamming the hatch down and, thus, protecting them from immediate attack. 

“The other flyer—” 

“I will send someone,” Keith interrupts, eyes concerned. His hands hover now, not quite making contact, resuming that space between them. Shiro tries to focus— tries to look at Keith’s face, at his hands, at anything that tells him he is safe.

He heaves a breath. The world stops zeroing in and, slowly, expands again. He’s in a flyer. He’s with Keith. 

He isn’t in the arena. He’s safe.

“Are you hurt?” 

“My arm,” Shiro says, staring down at his clenched hand, unable to uncoil it. His body is a thrumming furnace of pain, pulsing outward from where the creature made contact. “I’ll need to repair it. Maybe replace it.” 

Keith frowns, face tense, and he jumps into the pilot’s seat. As the last dredges of sunset disappear, the world flooding with darkness, Keith urges the flyer back towards the High Council. He doesn’t speak after that and Shiro doesn’t protest, hating how he curls into himself, clutching his arm to his chest and cradling his elbow. He feels pathetic, weak in a way he hasn’t felt since those first days in the arena. 

-

Once back in the High Council’s hangar, Keith reaches for Shiro again. He doesn’t pick him up in his arms again, but instead slings Shiro’s good arm over his shoulders and ushers him. Shiro hardly needs the support, but he doesn’t protest as Keith starts leading him. 

Shiro feels more like himself— not deep in some panic, at least— but his distress must be clear enough to Keith because he downright _growls_ at an approaching Altean worker. He bristles, ears hidden almost entirely in his hair for how flat they are, his proverbial and literal fangs bared as he leads Shiro through the winding pathways towards their quarters. 

“Get back!” he snaps at anyone who dares approach or has the misfortune of going down the hallway minding their own business. Keith lets out a low growl the entire way, effectively keeping everyone away. 

As they get closer to their quarters, Shiro heaves a relieved breath. In a small voice, he tells Keith, “I’ll need to contact an engineer, I think.” 

And that’s how Hunk finds them. He turns a corner down the hallway and brightens as he spots Keith and Shiro hurrying towards them. 

“Hey, I heard you two were—” 

“_Move,_” Keith growls, looking ready to barrel past Hunk and leave him flat on the ground. 

Hunk’s eyes widen. “What’s going— Shiro! Your arm—” 

Keith growls louder, bristling. Shiro thinks he’s one moment away from releasing Shiro and forcing Hunk to move out of the way. 

“Keith,” Shiro cuts in. “It’s okay. It’s Hunk.” 

He can’t even begin to explain Keith’s reaction, the reason for his fury and his wild-eyed looks. He still growls, something low in his throat as he gives Hunk a wary once-over and then shoulder-checks him, hurrying the rest of the way towards his and Shiro’s quarters.

Hunk looks ready to pass out from the reaction, but he follows them, dipping to Shiro’s other side— well away from Keith’s anger. 

“I got bit,” Shiro explains. “It’s not a big deal. I’m not hurt. Just my arm—” 

“Whoa, it’s busted,” Hunk remarks, frowning as he gets a good luck. “Need me to look at it?”

Before Shiro can answer, they reach the doors to his and Keith’s quarters. As the doors whoosh open to accommodate them, Keith casts another wary glance at Hunk and growls low at him. Hunk holds up his hands in a placating manner, speaking to Keith in rapid-fire Galran— he hears the word for engineer and arm, and figures Hunk’s offering his services. 

Keith’s growl finally cuts off, leaving him breathing deep, pupils blown wide. Then he narrows his eyes at him and speaks in low, cold Galran. 

He turns to Shiro and, with unbearable gentleness, guides Shiro to a chair and sits him down in it. 

“Huh,” Hunk says, surprised. He turns to Shiro, undoubtedly seeing the question in his eyes. “Keith says he can fix it.” 

“Really?” Shiro asks, looking up Keith. Keith gives a jerky nod.

Hunk enters after them both and lets the door shut behind him. Keith watches Hunk, one ear pointed towards Shiro as always and the other following Hunk’s footsteps. He begrudgingly leaves Shiro’s side only to grab two more chairs, setting one for Hunk beside Shiro and then the other for himself facing Shiro. He hurries around the room and returns with a small toolkit. 

“Wow,” Hunk says as he sits in the chair beside Shiro. “Galran tools.” 

“It’s a Galran arm,” Keith says bluntly. 

Hunk looks a little terrified at Keith’s casual validation. He glances at Shiro to see his reaction. 

“Allegedly Galran,” Shiro murmurs, for Hunk’s benefit. 

“_Galran,_” Keith insists, eyes fierce as he looks up at Shiro. 

Shiro can’t help his small smile, something warm blooming in his chest— another validation, another reassurance from Keith. 

Keith watches Shiro smile and then glances down at Shiro’s arm. “I can fix it.” 

Keith sits before Shiro, opening the toolkit and with an unexpected strength, pulls Shiro’s clenched-rigid arm away from his chest and outward into his lap. Keith growls low, low enough that it almost sounds like the purring he does at night. 

“Wow,” Hunk whispers to Shiro. “The Marmoran Rattle.” 

“The what?” 

“That sound he’s making,” Hunk murmurs. “It’s called the Marmoran Rattle. It helps with healing— not all the Galra can do it.” 

Shiro privately thinks purring sounds nicer than rattling, but also acknowledges that’s perhaps undiplomatic of him. Still, it’s so similar to the way Keith sounds at night, Shiro can’t help but wonder if it’s related— if, in his sleep, Keith is seeking something. 

As Keith starts studying his arm, he relays what happened to Hunk. Keith’s fierce reaction is still a mystery to him, but the Marmoran Rattle is soothing, so Shiro tries to focus on that, his eyes straying down to watch the way Keith’s fingers pass over and study the crunched plating on his arm. 

“Is it fixable?” Shiro asks, voice soft as if afraid to disrupt Keith. 

Hunk conveys the words and Keith murmurs back, voice growly and deep, his focus entirely on Shiro’s arm. He fiddles inside the plating with a tiny screwdriver. 

“Yeah, it’s fixable,” Hunk tells Shiro. “But you need to hold still.” 

Shiro obediently holds himself steady. Keith says something else, eyes flicking up to look at Shiro. 

“And, if you can, uncurl your fingers,” Hunk tells him.

“I can’t,” Shiro confesses after he tries for several beats, his fingers unresponsive. He feels weak in the face of that reality, with both Keith and Hunk looking at him. 

Keith grunts and nods his head, expression understanding when he flicks up to meet Shiro’s eyes. His expression grows fiercer when he looks back at Shiro’s arm again and ducks his head, working. 

Wisps of his hair have fallen from his braid and skim over his ears and brush over Shiro’s arm. Shiro’s grateful he can at least feel such a gentle, barely-there sensation. A strength of Galran technology, it seems. 

Shiro watches Keith work, his brow furrowed, more hair falling past his ears. It brushes over his arms, tickling him. Shiro’s uninjured hand twitches and Shiro can’t resist reaching up to brush that hair away, following the arc of the soft wave of black to tuck it again behind Keith’s ear. 

The tool fumbles inside Shiro’s arm as Keith jerks back in surprise, eyes flying wide open as he stares at Shiro in open-mouthed disbelief. Shiro instinctively holds his hand back in a placating gesture, blushing. 

“Sorry— um, sorry.” He glances at Hunk, but his expression is unreadable. Shiro grimaces when he looks back at Keith. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.” 

Keith’s face is flushed a dark purple, so deep it nearly twinges red through the soft fuzz of his furry cheeks. He touches the pieces of hair Shiro brushed back. 

“It’s… alright, Shiro,” Keith murmurs. “Please hold still.” 

Shiro does, watching Keith. Keith speaks after a few moments of silence, and Hunk translates. 

“You shouldn’t have jumped in the way,” Hunk tells him. “You were hurt because of it.” 

Shiro almost wants to smile. Keith doesn’t look at him, focused entirely on fiddling inside Shiro’s arm. Shiro feels a flinch of pain lance through him but represses it— that’s a good sign, he thinks, as Keith reconnects two receptors within the confines of the arm. 

Hunk peeks over, too, studying the way Keith moves. He seems to be drinking it all in, making some sort of mental catalogue of the interior of Shiro’s arm. It occurs to him that Hunk’s likely not seen a lot of the insides of Galra tech. 

“I moved on instinct,” Shiro says once Keith seems a little less focused on the task of moving an interface module. “I wasn’t thinking.” 

Keith snorts once Hunk translates. “_That much is clear. Fool._” 

Hunk pauses, likely unsure if he should translate that, but Shiro’s universal translator did the work for him and he chuckles. “Maybe so.” He leans forward a little, jostling his arm enough that Keith looks up at him, petulantly. “Keith,” Shiro says kindly. “I’m trained for this. I’d have jumped in to help anyone… you don’t need to feel guilty.” 

Keith shakes his head. “_What bondmate am I if I can’t protect you?_” He scowls. “_I failed. You were hurt._”

“Keith,” Shiro says, gently, barely letting Hunk get the words in before he’s protesting. “If the job of a bondmate is to protect his mate, isn’t that what I was doing?” 

Keith stares up at him, bewildered, as if that thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Me?” 

Shiro shrugs and then smiles. “Besides. You’re fixing my arm now, aren’t you? You’re protecting me.” 

Keith looks like he wants to protest but casts a furtive glance at Hunk as he translates their conversation. Clearly whatever he wants to say, he doesn’t want to say in front of Hunk. He sighs, squaring his shoulders, and bends down to resume working on Shiro’s arm. His ears flick towards Shiro, poised there, absorbing his every sound. 

Shiro watches Keith in silence, studying the nimble, quiet way he works. Slowly, Shiro’s hand unclenches, his fingers uncurling as he relaxes. Shiro sighs his relief. 

“That’s so much better,” Shiro breathes. 

Keith glances up at him. He gives a brief nod. “Good.” 

He doesn’t stop, though, until Shiro feels back to normal. The plates are a bit crunched in corners as he reapplies them to Shiro’s arm, but with a proper welding, he should be able to smooth it out later. For now, it’s basically good as new, if not for the teeth marks puncturing the arm. Just another series of scars, Shiro supposes. 

Keith regards Hunk and then snaps something in Galran. Hunk springs to his feet and bends over Shiro’s arm, examining it— giving it a once-over. 

“He wants my sign-off,” Hunk stage-whispers to Shiro as he examines. “But I mean, I think he’s nailed it.” Once he’s done, he leans back. “I’ll check in with the Alteans,” Hunk assures him. “We can take a look and make sure it’s good as new. For now— I think it’s back to normal.” 

Shiro nods and with a steady pat of his shoulder, Hunk makes his exit for the night. He seems delighted to get out from under the watchful, intense eye of Keith in his protective mode. 

Shiro waits until the door whooshes shut behind Hunk before he looks back to Keith and asks, “You… did you want to say something to just me, not Hunk?” 

He waits, patiently, as Keith translates the words. It’s strange in its own way to have conversations with Keith, just the two of them. It forces Shiro to be slow, to be mindful of what he’s saying. He has to collect his words and, in turn, watches understanding dawn in Keith’s eyes as he works his way through the words, too. 

“With the Galra,” Keith says, slowly. “The fighting. You focus on yourself.” 

Shiro nods, tentatively. It’s true that, in the arena, it was fight or die. Victory of Death. 

“But you didn’t,” Keith says. “Now. Not yourself.” His brow furrows. “You protected me.” 

Shiro blinks in surprise as he processes the words. Keith’s correct, of course— he found himself falling back into his instincts from the time when he had to fight, but the truth is that he never had an opportunity to protect anyone in that time. It was about fighting. It was about winning. 

“_Humans do not have vrínt liisva._”

Shiro gestures to his ear and shakes his head. Keith frowns deeply, struggling to find a way to put the untranslated words into something understandable. 

“The… gaze,” Keith settles on. “The instinct. For mates.” He heaves a frustrated sigh, hand lifting to touch his freed hair, shoving it back behind his ear. “It is… a pull. A desire to protect a mate. Humans lack it.”

Shiro considers, trying to put the words in a context. “Something like a maternal instinct, you mean? Humans have that— wanting to protect the people they care about. Do the Galra have something for mates, specifically?”

Keith nods, the movement jerky and just a little tentative. “It is… down here,” he murmurs, pressing his hand to his solar plexus, just above his stomach. “_It hurts us when we go against it or ignore it._” 

Shiro nods. It sounds, to him, like his earlier theory was correct— Keith’s protectiveness and loyalty to him is born from an instinctive, evolutionary need. It has nothing to do with him. 

“I think humans can have that,” Shiro confesses. “When you— when you love someone, it can hurt to be separated from them. You want to be with them. To help them. To protect them.” 

Keith nods, going still. He fiddles with his braid and says, “Galra love, too.”

“Of course,” Shiro agrees and Keith glances up at him, as if surprised at Shiro’s agreement. 

“We love,” Keith says, quietly, “But we also _ vrínt liisva_.” 

“I think I get it,” Shiro says, although he isn’t sure. Like love, but separate from it. A calling, a pull a mate can’t ignore. “It’s something you feel right away but love has to grow, right?” 

Keith’s quiet for a long time, parsing the words, and then he nods. 

“Wow,” Shiro says, laughing. “Something like divorce would be really intense for you guys. It’s kind of an everyday occurrence with Humans.” 

Keith’s ears flick back as he translates the words. “Mating ties can be severed,” Keith says, not meeting his eyes. “If it’s wished. It is… difficult.” 

He doesn’t elaborate and, abruptly, snatches Shiro’s arm in both his hands, tugging it back into his lap so he can examine it, once again, for any lingering pain or breaks. Shiro lets him, thinking it must soothe Keith in some way. He watches Keith turn Shiro’s arm, examining it, rolling his wrist and uncurling each finger. 

“You were correct,” Keith says, after a long silence. 

“About what?” 

Keith stares down at Shiro’s arm and says, “_My parents could have been the alliance. I could be proof of an alliance. But you were made to marry me instead._” 

Shiro frowns. It’s hard to read tone in another language when he’s focusing on the words themselves and he’s unsure how to place Keith’s words. Keith doesn’t look at him, running his fingertips over each of Shiro’s fingers. 

“It was my choice,” Shiro answers. “Just as it was yours.” 

Keith glances up at him, slowly, studying him. He slowly lifts his chin so they’re looking at each other head-on. Keith’s fingertips are soft against Shiro’s palm. Tentatively, Shiro smiles at him, flexing his fingers against Keith’s. 

“Can I thank you for helping me with my arm?” 

Shiro clenches and unclenches his hand, testing it out, and smiles as he rolls his wrist. It does feel good as new, cosmetic issues aside. Keith, it seems, is a miracle worker. 

“You don’t need to,” Keith says. “You protected me.”

“I want to.” 

Keith considers. He’s silent for so long that Shiro wonders if maybe Keith is only staying silent in hopes that Shiro will drop it and leave it be. He flexes his hand again, gently, and watches Keith lift his hand away, fiddling with his hair once again. 

Finally, Keith lets out a breath and stares into Shiro’s eyes. “Shiro.”

“Yes?”

“You will meet me in combat.” 

-

Turns out, Keith means the words literally. Once certain Shiro’s arm is alright, Keith leads Shiro through a winding hallway and out into the expansive back garden. 

The sky is dark now, save for the stars winking above, and the garden is lit with glowing argrulian lights looped between the antovian trees, little lanterns of pink glow glittering between the leaves. 

It casts an eerie shadow as Keith finds an open path within the gardens, the soft sealgrass just like at the streambed. Shiro watches, perplexed, as Keith coils his braid and loose hairs up to the nape of his neck, leaving it a messy bundle pinned close to his skull. With great care, he unhooks his blade from his back and sets it down with reverential and gentle regard. Then, he straightens to shrug out of his over-vest, letting it fall to the ground. It leaves him only in the tight trousers and his breezy tunic. He turns to regard Shiro with a critical eye. 

Shiro doesn’t understand the logic of sparring as a form of thank you, but if it’s how he shows his gratitude for having an arm that works, he’ll take it. The Galra are, after all, a warrior race— even the Marmora Clan. And maybe a small part of Shiro is curious about the way Keith fights— he moves with great fluidity, and races like he’s liquid fire. He imagines his fighting ability must be similar. 

Shiro is no born fighter. His abilities grew from necessity, from having to stay alive. There were sparring drills in the Garrison, of course, but that was always perfunctory and Shiro focused his efforts more on field first aid rather than combat skills. He was a pilot, after all, not a soldier. The arena, on the other hand, had been a cruel teacher. 

All the same, Shiro mimics Keith, first removing his blade and setting it down with great care before shrugging out of the over-vest and, after some debate, peeling off the tunic as well. He rolls his shoulders, working out the crick from his injured arm but otherwise feeling uninjured from the earlier creature. Keith had done his duty, scaring it off without issue. 

“Best two out of three or winner takes all?” Shiro asks as Keith regards him with an assessing gaze, eyes sweeping over Shiro’s body. Keith starts to literally prowl, stalking across the patch of open grass in the garden, moving back and forth as he regards Shiro. 

“You will fight me,” Keith says. “You will wish to win. I do not accept _tr’oovarlsist._” 

Shiro gestures to his ear. 

Keith frowns, considering. “The… it is a creature on Daibazaal. It dances on the sand, too hot to let its feet land. It can’t decide if it wishes to go to its nest or to venture for food and ends up burning instead.” 

Shiro always loved this part about alien cultures. Not just the language, but the slang, the idioms. He always felt that it was the best way to learn about a culture, after all— not their formal language and conjugations, but their songs, their folklore, their little gestures and phrases. 

He thinks on it and decides, “Something like half-hearted? Half-measures? Pick something and decide.” He laughs. “Don’t waffle.” 

“Waffle?” Keith asks, perplexed.

“Terran food,” Shiro explains. “I’ll make it for you some time. But I get it. You want me to go at you with no hesitation.” 

Keith looks pleased. He nods. “Yes.” 

“That I can do,” Shiro promises, shaking out his shoulders and then crouching, poised and ready. 

Keith doesn’t actually give him the chance to prepare, though. As soon as the words leave Shiro’s mouth, Keith launches forward. He’s quick, just like Shiro could have guessed, slicing through the air easily and aiming low. 

Shiro knows he’s tall for a human, but in the arena, he grew used to being small. He learned to fight small. Actually having an opponent shorter than him takes an adjustment. Instead of blowing in full-forced, easy to dodge, Keith aims towards the ground. He slides through the grass, foot slamming into Shiro’s ankle and knocking him off balance. 

And Keith doesn’t pause, doesn’t give him a chance to breathe. It’s just like watching him race across an Altean plateau, shoving his force into it full-throttled and unrelenting, blazing close and flitting away before Shiro can get a hold on him. He knocks Shiro off balance, uses Shiro’s own strength and weight against him, and leaves him stumbling through the grass. 

Shiro’s breathing heavy after only a few moments but he can’t hide his grin even if he wanted to. He adjusts, he adapts, he notes every move Keith makes— how he favors his left side, so Shiro rises to meet him, blocks his sweep with one of his own, hooks his hand hard in Keith’s knee and throws him. 

Keith twists mid-air, landing, skidding through the grass and launching back towards him, something like excitement burning his eyes as bright as a supernova. It’s near blinding and Shiro can only dodge for a few moments as Keith comes in, jabbing hard and upward, hands catching Shiro’s ribs, his stomach, his solar plexus. 

It feels almost like a dance. Keith swirls around him, always just out of reach, ducking and weaving between Shiro’s movements. But Shiro has his own grace, his own power, and he sweeps his body out to meet Keith in turn. They travel the whole length of the grassy knoll, refusing to stop. 

He lands a hit on Keith and manages to get him onto his back. But Keith rolls and is up before Shiro can even think to pin him. He tilts up, launches, weaves his legs around Shiro’s torso and manages to slam him down onto his back. But he, too, can’t pin Shiro before Shiro’s shoving him off. 

Keith tumbles through the grass and gets back onto his feet in time to dodge Shiro diving for him. It’s like that, an ebb and a flow. They move like a tide, rising to meet each other and falling back again. Shiro’s panting as he dodges away from Keith’s relentless attacks, his hair tacky with sweat as it clings to his forehead. 

He manages to pin Keith only because Keith lingers for too long in his space. He presses down, hard, and slams Keith down into the grass. He plants his metal arm hard against his back, pinning him against the grass even as Keith squirms. 

“Yield,” Shiro pants. 

But Keith doesn’t obey, nor does he give up. He wriggles and with some effort manages to hook his leg around Shiro’s thigh and kicks back, spinning them. He moves, liquid and willowy, and straddles Shiro hard before slamming him down with that unrelenting Galran strength. 

His eyes are blown wide, pupils slit. His sclera has always been yellow, but it seems to burn with it now, his own hair clinging to his face as he pants, his fangs glinting in the night. His grip is relentless, pricking claws as he pins Shiro down by his wrists. 

Keith stares at him, wide-eyed, seemingly unsure where to settle his eyes— to meet Shiro’s, or glancing at his neck, licking his lips in a way that arrests all of Shiro’s breath. 

Shiro tries to get free, tries to throw his weight into Keith and throw him off. But Keith is a solid weight against him, panting, grip unyielding. 

His eyes flicker, burning bright as he stares down at Shiro, pinning him to the ground like a predator does his prey. 

Shiro is so used to people over- and underestimating him both. He likes that Keith sees him as a challenge but doesn’t give up, either. More still, he likes the thought that Keith must see Shiro as a challenge, too. It’s clear that Keith’s tactical abilities and strength are beyond reproach.

“Yield,” Keith whispers, and the softness of it, the way he breathes it out, leaves Shiro equally breathless. 

All Shiro can hear is the sound of their breathing out in this garden. Shiro heaves air in a rush, his hands pinned above his head, Keith pressing down against him with that sinuous, lingering strength. 

He could yield. Shiro thinks he’s supposed to yield, to be a gracious loser, to be a gracious husband. But there’s an expectation in Keith’s eyes, some sort of fire burning. It’s a risk, but Shiro’s always been a risk-taker. 

He sucks in a sharp breath to steel himself and throws all his weight up, shoving hard into Keith. Keith’s eyes widen before Shiro’s swinging up, grappling with him, and they go back to wrestling. It’s flashes of movement, smooth as liquid, and Shiro’s always known how to fight like he’s the smaller one, knows how to use his strength unexpectedly, not just brute force. He swings his arm around Keith and grips tight, grunting as he throws his weight against his shoulder and pins Keith down hard against the floor. 

Panting, Shiro says, in Galran, “_Yield._” 

Keith’s eyes are a smoldering fire, brought back to life from embers. He growls low, but he doesn’t look angry— only impressed. The Galra always did admire the warrior spirit, after all. 

Keith’s eyes flicker over Shiro’s face, studying him, then slide down and rest at his mouth. Instinctively, Shiro licks his lips and Keith’s pupils blow wider. It’d be so simple to lean down and kiss Keith. He thinks Keith would maybe let him if he did. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers. 

The power crackles between them. He can feel the heave of Keith’s breath as he pants for breath, eyes staring up at Shiro. 

Keith whispers something to him, gravelly Galran that his translator can’t pick up. Shiro hopes his expression spells confusion, because gesturing to his ear would mean letting go of Keith’s wrist. 

Keith continues speaking, a low, melodic Galran that the translator can’t make sense of. Keith’s eyes stare into his and it feels like a chant, like some sort of promise, like an ancient ritual they’ve been dancing since entering the garden. The words sound heavy, and without the need for Shiro to focus on translating, he can just let it wash over him— an ancient language, deeper and darker than the hidden waters of Daibazaal. 

Shiro feels himself falling into the spell of it, getting lost in Keith’s eyes. He’s not being literally enchanted, he knows, but he can’t help but marvel at Keith. 

“_My mate,_” Keith whispers, the only part of his speech that Shiro’s translator can parse. It feels like both promise and punctuation. 

“_My mate,_” Shiro feels compelled to repeat. The Galran feels clumsy in his mouth but Keith only looks proud of him. 

Keith smiles at him and then reels back. He squirms, and then, suddenly, he kicks up. Shiro lets out a gasp of surprise at the flexibility, at the sudden foot to his stomach shoving him off of Keith’s body. 

Keith is back on his feet instantly, rolling and sinuous, and he grins, wild and feral and _beautiful_ before renewing his attack. Shiro is powerless to stop him, only able to block as Keith high-kicks towards his chin. Shiro catches it with his hand and flips Keith back, who rolls and tumbles across the grass before launching back at him.

“You’re amazing,” Shiro gasps, impressed and terrified and delighted— it doesn’t feel like being in the arena, doesn’t feel like life and death. It feels like a celebration, like a surprise, like he can’t wait to see what Keith does next. 

When finally Keith pins Shiro down, Shiro knows that he’ll be too exhausted to get free and it’s exhilarating. He pants beneath Keith, staring up at him, perplexed and mesmerized by every movement. 

It never occurs to him to be scared of any of this. 

Keith smiles down at him, triumphant. A piece of his hair spills from his messy braid and brushes Shiro’s face. Carefully, Keith brushes it away for him, his fingertips ghosting Shiro’s mouth. 

Shiro’s hand is free and he can’t even think to break free, to renew their combat. Keith’s hand returns to Shiro’s wrist and pins him down once more. 

“I yield,” Shiro breathes, gulping down air. 

“You fight well, husband,” Keith praises and somehow that makes Shiro’s heart sing.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Shiro can’t help but tease back. He thinks that if Keith’s given him a test, he’s passed it. 

He doesn’t know what it is about today that’s changed it all but lying pinned beneath Keith in a star-kissed garden, all he can think is that he never wants to be anywhere else but here. 

-

After their fight, Keith helps Shiro clean off and they lounge in the grass, cooling off and letting their sweat dry. Keith gestures for Shiro to stay and trots off, presumably to grab Hunk or a new tunic. 

He returns shortly with a large pitcher of Altean juniberry wine and indeed a new tunic for Shiro. He has something tucked under his arm, although Shiro can’t make it out in the dim lighting. He accepts the pitcher with a grateful hum and pours two generous cups as Keith settles in the spot beside him. 

In Keith’s absence, Shiro’s moved to a spot beneath one of the antovian trees, thick with the casting light. Shiro only hopes that antovian fruits don’t fall at night, because he’s not sure if he wants a durian-sized fruit cracking his skull open. He takes a grateful gulp of the wine and lets out a pleased sigh as he relaxes back against the trunk of the tree.

Keith looks amused, his eyes glittering with mirth as he takes a tentative sip and then mimics Shiro’s sigh— overexaggerated and goofy. He’s being teased, Shiro realizes, and it makes him laugh. He should have guessed that, underneath it all, Keith has a sense of humor— although it seems something that only emerges once he’s comfortable. Shiro’s grateful that Keith’s revealing this side of himself to him. 

Keith hides his smile behind another sip of wine. 

“What’s that?” Shiro asks, nodding towards whatever Keith brought with him, hidden beneath his over-vest. 

Keith hesitates, glancing at him, and then shyly unfolds his over-vest to reveal a pad of paper. A sketch book, Shiro realizes, as Keith tentatively flips through the pages, body angled so Shiro can’t see. Once he finds the page he’s looking for, Keith turns it, showing Shiro an elaborate and thorough drawing of the view from their bedroom window. 

“Wow,” Shiro says, recalling that earlier today Keith had mentioned liking to draw as well as fly. He stares at the page Keith offers to him, studying all the details. It’s like he’s standing at their bedroom window and staring down into the gardens below. “Keith,” he breathes. “This is beautiful.” 

Keith looks pleased with the praise, blushing as he turns his face away. He takes another sip of his wine and sets it down before flipping through the pages. It takes him a moment to find a page he wants to show Shiro, but Shiro can be patient. He nurses his drink, watching Keith study his own work. 

Tentatively, Keith flips the page— it’s a portrait of a woman who looks remarkably like Keith, though she’s lacking the long braid, just a slim ponytail instead. Her cheek markings are slightly different from Keith’s, and their eyes are different, but otherwise it’s clear who she is. 

“Your mother?” Shiro guesses. 

Keith nods. His smile is gentle, a different smile than Shiro’s seen from Keith. It’s similar to the one he wore when speaking of his father, but a little less pained. 

“Mom,” Keith says with a definitive nod. “She is…” He considers, mouth pursing. “Dad always called her… ‘without-nonsense’?” 

“No-nonsense?” Shiro guesses and Keith makes a soft sound, nodding. Shiro smiles. “It means she doesn’t take anybody’s excuses.” 

Keith nods, smile fond. “That’s Mom.” 

“Is she on Daibazaal?” 

“Yes.” Keith flips the pages of the sketchbook to a blank page, letting it rest in his lap. “She is watching over our clan while we are here.” 

Shiro tilts his head. “Are you sad she wasn’t here for your wedding?” 

Keith blinks and then shakes his head. “The Marmora, we…” He sighs, switching to Galran. “_Clans are one, but mates are something else. Terrans have wedding parties. Galra do not. A parent’s presence is not… necessary._” 

Shiro nods. “Makes sense. It’s about the individuals becoming one, independent of the clan.” 

Keith considers the words as they translate and then nods. “Yes. What will matter to Mom is… _how we work together as one, not the moment we became one._” 

Shiro nods. There’s logic to it. He pours more wine into their glasses with a tentative smile when Keith glances at him, flushed a light pink glow from the flickering lights above. He looks softer like this. 

“Guess we got to watch the stars after all,” Shiro jokes. 

Keith looks up at the mention of them. “Are they like Earth?” 

“Not at all,” Shiro says. “What about Daibazaal?” 

“No,” Keith says. “Not at all.” 

Shiro lets them lapse into a silence with a pleasant hum. He feels bone-tired from such a long day, and especially from their sparring. But the wine helps loosen his limbs and leaves him pleasantly relaxed. 

Keith crosses his legs beside him and, tentatively, starts sketching the pitcher. Shiro doesn’t peek, seeing Keith’s shyness as he glances between the pitcher and back to Shiro to see if he’s looking. Shiro closes his eyes, just listening to the scratch of his pencil across the paper. 

Once the sound stills, Keith nudges his knee. Shiro opens his eyes, tilting his head, and Keith shows him his drawing. Turns out, it’s not just the pitcher but the grass they’re sitting in— and even Shiro’s leg stretched out behind the pitcher. Keith’s smile is tentative but widens when Shiro breathes out.

“Pretty,” he tells Keith and Keith ducks his head, ears flicking up. Pleased, Shiro thinks. “You’re really good, Keith.” 

“It helped with Dad,” Keith explains. He points to the pitcher and says a Galran word. “_Mu’tak._” 

“Pitcher or wine?” Shiro asks, cluing into what Keith means. 

“Pitcher. _Mu’tak._” Keith pauses, and then adds. “Wine. _Vaa._” 

Shiro laughs. “_Vaa._” He takes a sip. “_Vaa_ is good.” 

Keith scoffs. “Yes.” 

“This helped you and your dad communicate,” Shiro elaborates. 

Keith nods. “Dad wasn’t good with language. And I only know some Terran.” 

“You’re very good at Terran,” Shiro says again, as he did the first day they met. “Far better than my Galran.”

Keith’s mouth flickers with a smile. He tilts his head towards the garden. “What do I draw?” 

“Oh,” Shiro says, realizing he’s asking for requests. He looks around, trying to decide, and points to a curly-cue flower bush shaped like a corkscrew just within the circle of light the antovian tree casts. “That?” 

Keith gets to work diligently. This time, he angles his paper so Shiro can watch. Shiro sips his wine, watching the elegant way Keith’s paper traces the paper, with the confidence of someone used to drawing quick little sketches. 

It’s a pleasant evening. Keith and Shiro drink their wine and Keith sketches the things Shiro points to, reciting the Galran words diligently. Shiro recites the Terran words in turn and by the end of the night, they both have a handful of new words they can’t possibly use in every-day conversation. But still, it’s nice, and Shiro can’t remember having such an eventful day on solid ground in such a long time. 

That night, Keith still sleeps on the other side of the bed from Shiro and then plasters himself against Shiro’s back once he’s fully asleep, but Shiro welcomes it at this point. At the very least, he’ll never have to worry about getting cold in the Daibazaal winter.

Not that he even knows if Daibazaal has winter. It’s another question he’ll have to ask when Hunk is nearby. 

-

Hunk and a team of engineers double-check Shiro’s arm over the next couple days and give him a full bill of health. Shiro conveys as much to Keith, later, and Keith gives an appreciative nod, something softer in his expression. 

-

Over the next few days, they focus on negotiations. One day, after negotiations are over for the afternoon, Keith steps into Shiro’s eye line and gestures to his sketchbook. On the page, he’s doodled a series of pictures: two people entering a flyer and traveling to a river. Shiro’s pretty sure he gets the message, looking up at Keith with a smile and a nod. 

It’s easy enough to take the same flyer this time, landing at another stretch of sealgrass meadow next to the purple stream. They don’t really talk, which is just as well. Keith lounges in the sunshine or draws a little. Shiro builds a tower out of little stones until he finds flat ones he can skip across the water. Keith still keeps his distance, never bridging the gap he puts between himself and Shiro, but it feels less like an icy distance and more a respectful space between them. 

It’s a pleasant afternoon spent in silence, just enjoying the nature around them and each other’s company. Shiro doesn’t think he’s imagining the sense of ease in Keith’s eyes as he draws, sketching their surroundings. 

When they return to the High Council, well before sunset, Shiro feels a little drunk off the sunshine. It’s strange to realize, vargas later as he’s eating his dinner, that what he’s feeling is _relaxed. _

-

Their sparring session aside, though, Shiro wants to thank Keith properly for the assistance with his arm. Hunk gave it another glance over, just in case, but it hasn’t caused him any trouble. Keith’s quick remedy prevented Shiro from a headache and dull, aching pain. 

“How do the Galra give their thanks?” he asks Hunk a couple days after the incident. 

Hunk frowns as he considers. “I mean… Combat’s pretty typical, right?” He shrugs. “I might be passable in Galran but I’m hardly an expert on the culture.” 

“I thought you were an expert,” Shiro says. It’s not the first time Hunk hasn’t had answers for him.

Hunk looks at him sympathetically. “I’m the leading Human expert in the Galra… so, you know. I don’t have much competition.” 

Shiro wilts. He could always ask Keith himself, of course, but it kind of ruins the purpose of saying thank you if it isn’t a surprise. Then again, he isn’t sure how the Galra might feel about surprises in general. 

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” Shiro mutters to himself, glumly. 

“Hey,” Hunk says. “I mean, you can’t go wrong with food, right? Food unites all cultures.” 

Shiro frowns, fiddling with the collar of his long, Galran-style tunic. “I guess, yeah.” 

The truth is, it’s been a long time since he’s had to cook for himself. Much less Galran cuisine. Back on Earth, he’d been functionally vegan, but the Galra rely heavily on meat-based diets. Shiro has no idea how to prepare meat in a way that won’t accidentally make Keith sick. 

Hunk must take pity, based on Shiro’s dire expression, because he offers, “I can help you make something for him?” 

“It should just be me,” Shiro says, stubborn and unwilling to reveal his culinary weaknesses (or any weaknesses) to Hunk. “I mean, I’m the one saying thank you. It’ll mean more if I’m the one who does it.” 

Shiro inhales, thinking to himself. It’s true he might not have a lot of experience cooking, but he’s also never been one to back down from a challenge. 

“This is a good idea, Hunk,” Shiro declares. “Thanks.” 

Hunk looks ambivalent but also seems unwilling to pursue it. He shrugs and says, “Sure. Let me know if you want my help?” 

Shiro nods, already planning out his approach. 

After his meal with Hunk, he wanders down to the kitchens to speak with the Altean workers. They house delegates from across galaxies, so it stands to reason they’d have some sort of recipe book or knowledge on Galran recipes. 

He ends up finding a small Altean cookbook with a section on Galran recipes. Most of it is in Altean, which Shiro can speak well enough but certainly can’t read proficiently. However, he recognizes the ingredients listed and there are pictures for the steps, so Shiro feels confident in his ability to make it. 

He returns to the kitchen later that evening, rolling up his sleeves and getting to work. He selects the recipe that seems the easiest and, more importantly, doesn’t feature any sort of strange meat Shiro would have to prepare. This recipe appears to be a soup, made from a bone broth, sure, but relying more on starchy vegetables. 

Shiro sets to work, making what he can. He isn’t able to translate each ingredient and it seems the Altean kitchen doesn’t feature every niche Galran spice, so he substitutes where he needs to. He can’t find a specific blue Galran spice, but picks a random Altean blue spice— it’ll work well enough, he figures. He has no idea what _wyvdarken root_ is and substitutes Altean rootfruit-oil instead. 

He’s halfway through the recipe and the soup on the stove is bubbling. It smells nice, actually, which genuinely surprises Shiro. It looks a bit like tom-yum soup, if he’s being honest, but he can’t imagine what it’ll taste like once it’s finished. 

Shiro adds the swivelvyt, dusting his hands free of the starchy dust clinging to his fingertips. With the final ingredient added, all he has to do is stir and let it simmer. He stares down into it, waiting for it to change from a milky white to a translucent seaglass green. 

One varga later, Shiro finds Keith in their quarters, fixing his braid. 

“Keith,” he greets, smiling when Keith’s ears swivel towards him first and then his face follows, turning his head to look at Shiro. 

“Hello, Shiro.” 

“I, um… I have something for you,” he tells Shiro. 

Keith’s ears perk up and he tilts his head, confused. Shiro takes a steadying breath and enters the room fully, carrying the bowl of Galran soup beneath a cloche. 

“What is it?” Keith asks as Shiro sets it down at the table in front of him. Keith carefully sets aside his hairbrush, clearing the vanity table for the bowl and cloche. 

“I wanted to thank you. Properly,” Shiro says. “I asked Hunk how the Galra show their appreciation and he wasn’t sure but said that food helps. So, I wanted to make you a traditional Galran dish—” 

Stumbling over the words, Shiro clutches the bowl’s cloche and pulls it up, revealing its contents. He doesn’t quite flourish, but he does nearly stick his fingers in the soup for his troubles. 

Keith blinks and stares down at the soup. 

“— Ta da?” Shiro asks when Keith says nothing. 

Keith’s expression looks strained as he tilts his head back to look up at Shiro. 

Shiro feels a coil of anxiety twist in his chest. His smile dims, just a little. “I couldn’t read the recipe easily, but I did what I could. And the kitchen didn’t have all the necessary ingredients, so I had to—” 

Keith snorts. 

Shiro freezes at the sound. He opens his mouth to say something more but stops, abruptly, when Keith makes that snorting sound again.

Something wobbles on Keith’s face. “Shiro,” he says, quiet and calm. “Do you know what this dish is?” 

“A… soup?” Shiro guesses. 

Keith’s mouth twitches. “This is a traditional dish for Galran children. After they’ve successfully identified an intended mate, they present this dish to their parents.” 

Shiro stares down in shock at the dish, bubbling its strange grassy green. 

“Um.” 

He feels like an idiot, standing there holding a soup cloche with all the finesse of a world-class chef. And he’s completely messed it up. 

He just made his husband a betrothal soup. 

He looks over, bewildered, to Keith. Keith’s eyes are on him, flickering over his face, studying him. 

“Uh… I’m already married,” Shiro clarifies. It’s possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever said in his life. As if Keith doesn’t already know Shiro’s married, being the husband in question. 

Keith snorts again, the softest little scoff. 

And then he bursts out laughing. It’s so loud and so instant that Shiro doesn’t even realize that’s what Keith’s doing until he ducks his head and clutches his belly. The sound bursts out of him, booming and unrestrained, and his shoulders shake as he heaves in a shaky breath. He’s never heard a laugh like it. 

Keith described his father’s laugh as a big belly laugh. It seems his son inherited the same method of amusement. 

It’s a completely unrestrained view of Keith— his laughter punching out of him. His entire body shakes with it as he covers his mouth.

Shiro, of course, can’t help but start laughing, too. The sound is infectious, after all, and it bursts out of him in turn. 

Shiro’s struck by the fact that this is the first time he’s seen Keith laugh. He didn’t even know the Galra laughed at all. 

“Where—” Keith wheezes, and giggles out some Galran, his syllables all punchy with laughter. Shiro can’t translate the words Keith’s saying, only the mirth coloring his voice. He sucks in a deep breath and tries to suppress his laughter. When he looks up at Shiro, his eyes are shining and he grins, all teeth and fangs. “_Where did you get this recipe?_” 

“A book,” Shiro says, which seems to just renew Keith’s amusement.

Keith’s giggles are soft. They’re sweet and bubbly, soothing through Shiro. It’s the nicest sound in the world, accompanying the pleasant sight of Keith’s unrestrained smile creasing his cheek stripes, flushed a bright purple. 

“Oh,” Shiro says as Keith picks up the spoon. “You don’t—” 

“Hush,” Keith scolds and takes a tentative spoonful of the soup and sips it into his mouth. He hums softly, expression still vaguely amused but thoughtful as he assesses the taste. 

Shiro’s sure it’s going to be disgusting. He wants to kick himself for his own stupid ideas. He should have asked Hunk for help. Hell, he should have asked an Altean to translate the recipe at the very least. 

But Keith thins his lips out and then takes another spoonful, sipping the soup. Smacking his lips, he looks up at Shiro and declares, “It’s good. What is the phrase? Good appetite?” 

Shiro puzzles over the words before he realizes what he means. “_Bon appétit._ You say it before you eat.” He studies Keith, searching his face for any pity or condescension. “You really like it?” 

“It’s spicy,” Keith tells him. “I like it.” His eyes sparkle as he turns away with a soft, “Even if it means you’re to marry another.” 

“No—” Shiro says, automatically, before he realizes that Keith really is teasing him. He starts laughing again and Shiro marvels at the way it lights up his face, eyes sparkling. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Making fun,” Keith says, testing the words out. “Strange phrase. To_ make _fun.” He eats his soup, smiling around his spoon. Teasing, he says, “My husband is of good humor.” 

Shiro slumps, sighing out and letting out a soft, embarrassed chuckle. He feels his cheeks burn red but Keith, thankfully, doesn’t point it out. He finishes his soup and sets the spoon down. 

“_You are so confident,_” Keith laughs. “_I thought you knew so much of my people, but you’re… as unsure as I am._” 

From anyone else, Shiro thinks he’d be insulted. But from Keith, he only feels a little warm and a little squirmy. 

“I don’t know a thing,” Shiro agrees. “I just… I wanted to thank you.” 

“I did not repair your arm for thanks,” Keith answers. 

“I know,” Shiro answers, and he does know. There’s nothing about Keith that seems self-serving. “But I wanted to, anyway.” 

Keith looks down and then back to him again and quietly asks, “It’s… what friends do?” 

Shiro marvels at Keith, meeting his eyes, and the truth of the words lances through him. He laughs, softly, feeling his cheeks flush warmer. In the end, it’s a nice thought— and Shiro never realized how it’d feel to have a friend, how nice friendship is. Far nicer than he’d hoped. 

“Yeah, Keith. It’s what friends do.” 

-

At dinner that night, Keith looks at a plate of green beans presented to Shiro for his Terran-style meal and starts laughing to himself, clearly reminded of Shiro’s failed dish by color alone. 

Shiro, of course, is helpless to fight his own answering laugh. They sit at the table, laughing together, the rest of the delegation glancing at them in utter perplexity.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to Gen for reading this chapter over! 
> 
> Also, the game featured in this chapter is based on and simplified from Skull. Super fun game if you ever get a chance to play!

Late into the night, Shiro knows that Keith isn’t asleep only because he hasn’t pressed up against his back as usual. He’s not even purring. The absence of it is almost overwhelming for its silence. Shiro never realized how quiet their room could be until it was gone. 

It’s been a quiet enough few days; negotiations are going well, even if Iverson keeps Shiro at arm’s length for most of it. Shiro and Keith are invited in occasionally, to reiterate their new union, perhaps, but are otherwise delegated to listening rather than participating. 

It’s just as well, Shiro figures. The fact that he’s only witnessed two shouting matches is something of a miracle. 

In their silent bedroom, Keith and Shiro’s backs are to each other, a wide space between them. Keith’s lying perfectly still. Shiro, meanwhile, taps away on his PADD as he works through his latest Galran language lesson, the system dimmed and muted so as not to disturb Keith. It makes practicing tricky when he can’t hear the pronunciation, but it’s better than nothing. 

Shiro shifts, glancing over his shoulder towards Keith, considering just asking him if he’s alright. He’s been still this whole time, and it doesn’t appear he’s about to fall asleep anytime soon. 

Instead of asking it outright, Shiro reads the last sentence he’s conjugated aloud: “_I want to eat some eggs._” 

It works as an ice breaker. Keith snorts behind him, soft and, Shiro thinks, almost fond. 

Shiro listens as Keith shifts, stretching out. The distance between them is wide, familiar at this point. It’s often the way they fall asleep, although typically Shiro doesn’t have to wait for Keith to fall asleep and seek him in his rest. Sleep is the only time Keith really touches him. 

“By all means,” Keith answers, his voice a low murmur. “Enjoy your eggs.” 

Shiro realizes, as he finishes out his lesson and sets his PADD down, that this is the first time he and Keith have actually spoken while in bed together. Not since their first night together, at least. Shiro can’t help but glance over his shoulder, taking a steady breath and studying the curve of Keith’s shoulder. 

It feels like a gift, almost, that they’ve come this far. How even something as simple as a conversation can be precious. It feels so long ago now when they laid together that first night. 

“I know my pronunciation’s bad,” Shiro says, quietly, and turns fully so that he’s facing the center of the bed— towards Keith’s back. 

“You are trying,” Keith answers, his ears flicking back and listening to Shiro as he moves and settles. “That’s more than most can say.”

Shiro studies Keith’s back— the gentle curtain of his hair loose from its braid, his strong shoulders, his flicking ears. He watches Keith pause, assessing, something tensing in those shoulders. 

And then, slowly, Keith rolls over so that he’s facing Shiro, too. They lie there, staring into one another’s eyes. It’s so much like those mornings when he’d wake to find Keith just peering at him. Shiro makes sure not to blink or to let his eyes dart away. 

“You aren’t sleeping,” Shiro observes.

“And you never sleep,” Keith answers. 

Shiro’s smile is a brief thing, there and gone again, and he sighs. “I know.” 

They fall back into silence, simply watching one another. Keith’s expression doesn’t change or move. But, after a moment, he blinks— once. Slow. Like he’s falling asleep but trying to keep his eyes open. 

“You do this a lot,” Shiro murmurs. 

“What?” 

“Just… look at me,” Shiro says— an invitation, he hopes, for Keith to explain if he wishes. “I know it’s rude to look away from Galran royalty.” 

“Yes,” Keith says. “Is that why you look at me in turn?” 

Shiro shakes his head. It’s easy enough to look into Keith’s eyes, to just study his face. He’s beautiful, of course, but more importantly— it feels as if Keith really sees him. It feels like he’s really trying to look. 

“Not really,” he tells Keith. “I just… Something tells me not to look away.” 

Keith doesn’t outwardly react to the words. He just keeps looking at Shiro, absorbing the words. Shiro isn’t sure if Keith understands the sentiment, or he merely accepts the words rushing over him. But, after a pause, he nods. He doesn’t break his eyes away. And so they lie there, facing one another across that gentle space between them. 

Finally, Keith murmurs “_Vrínt liisva._” 

“The pull, right?” Shiro clarifies and Keith nods. The mating pull, as Keith described it. “That’s why you look?” 

Keith shakes his head, looking frustrated by his inability to find words. “It’s… How I know you.” He grunts, frustrated. “It’s difficult to explain.” 

He lifts his hand as if to try to mime it. Shiro supposes it’s something too complex to sketch out, either.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to,” Shiro says, gently. He smiles. “I don’t mind you looking.” 

Keith’s eyes drop to Shiro’s mouth as he smiles, observing and assessing. Shiro isn’t sure what he sees. Silently, Keith’s eyes flick back up again to meet Shiro’s and hold steady, unwavering. 

“There’s so much I don’t know,” Shiro murmurs. He shudders. “I think about putting my blade on the table—” 

Keith shakes his head, his eyes pinching. “I know now that you weren’t aware. How could you be? We don’t tell many people about our ways.” 

“Eventually I’ll get it.” 

“You are very stubborn,” Keith agrees, his voice soft and teasing. It makes Shiro smile, breathing out a soft laugh. Keith tilts his head as they fall into silence again, regarding him with that same intense staring he always does.

Somehow, now, it’s soothing. 

As always, Shiro wonders what Keith sees. It’s true that so much feels so foreign to him, still not fully understood. He knows to keep his blade with him at all times. He knows that Keith feels obligated to protect him based purely on their matebond. He knows there’s a difference between instinct and love. He knows Keith’s purring is meant for healing. 

But for all that he’s learned, there’s still plenty he knows nothing about. He knows why, in theory, Keith looks at him— but not what he sees. He knows there’s a difference between instinct and love, but not what Keith feels for him beyond obligation and, perhaps, friendliness. He doesn’t know what it is that Keith finds worthy in him, or why he should receive Keith’s protection at all. He remembers being sprawled out on the ground during their spar days ago, the heavy weight of Keith’s words— but not what the words mean or what they signify. 

He’s tried to remember the words, to jot them down and, maybe, ask Hunk to translate. But all he can remember is the ancient way it pressed against his body, sat heavy in his heart. He couldn’t repeat the words now, but can only remember their feeling. Shiro’s long since accepted that the universe is full of science and magic, co-mingling— and those words felt like magic. 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, jarring Shiro from his thoughts. He fumbles with his words next, starting and stopping, and finally settles on, “You have pretty eyes.”

Shiro blinks at Keith in surprise. And then he laughs, softly. He watches Keith’s ears flick back, pressing back into his hair, but Shiro shakes his head quickly. 

“Sorry. I just… No one’s ever told me that before,” he admits. 

Keith’s brow furrows, thoughtfully. 

Afraid he’s insulted him regardless, Shiro says, “Thank you, Keith. Your eyes are pretty, too.” 

“I—” Keith stops. Even in the darkness of their room, Shiro can see Keith blushing. “No one has told me so, either.” 

“Not even a friend?” Shiro asks, before he can stop himself. 

“I’ve never had a friend.” 

Shiro breathes in, letting the words settle between them. The space between their bodies feels like a yawning expanse, but Keith is right there, holding his breath as the words leave his mouth. He stares at Shiro, as if daring him to laugh, or to dismiss the words. 

Vulnerability is strange, Shiro thinks. How easily he offers it to Keith. How easily Keith offers it in turn. Shiro can’t think of a single person in the universe he’d admit his failings to— something as simple as his struggles with learning Galran, or as devastating as his time in the arena. Somehow, it’s not difficult to share these things with Keith. 

This, too, Shiro can admit. 

“Me neither,” Shiro confesses. 

Keith’s eyes widen for a moment, pupils slit in the dark, and then he frowns, letting out the tiniest growl of what Shiro thinks must be confusion. 

“But… You are Captain Shirogane,” Keith says. 

Shiro can’t help the wan smile that plucks from the corner of his mouth. “Why does that matter?” 

“_Even my people have heard of all you do,_” Keith says, his Galran lilting and gentle against Shiro’s ears as they translate. “_Your good deeds. Your wy v’rit cairn._” 

Shiro breathes in and then back out again. “Really? The Galra know me?” 

Keith shakes his head. “Some, yes… You are Earth’s mightiest warrior.” 

“I’m hardly a warrior, Keith,” Shiro dismisses. It’s painful to imagine that his Galran capture made him famous among the Galra, known as a fighter when he never wished to be. 

He knows the rest of the universe sees the Galra as a warrior race. But Keith is nothing like a barbarian, nothing like the stories Shiro used to hear of the Galra as a child. Keith is kind and gentle, thoughtful and sincere. Competitive and stubborn, yes, but never cruel. 

“Not just with fighting,” Keith explains, his voice gentle— touching, so gently, on the arena; Shiro’s grateful that Keith doesn’t shy away from it, but doesn’t romanticize it, either. Keith’s hand lifts, as if he were to reach out and almost touch Shiro’s scar again. But it falls back before him, touching his pillow. “You are a warrior of knowledge, of peace. You fight with words and with good deeds. You are…” 

He trails off, struggling to find the proper word or unsure if he should say it. 

Keith bites his lip, the curve of his fang kissing his bottom lip. Quietly, he looks to Shiro and whispers, “Shiro, you are _good._” 

Something squirms inside Shiro’s chest— raw and aching and open. Shiro doesn’t know what to say for a moment, taken aback by it. 

Perhaps the Galra are not as isolated as they would lead the universe to believe. That much, perhaps, has been true in the recent decaphoebs— the slow unfurling of the Galra into the universe, seeking out new planets and new peoples to know. 

“Thank you,” Shiro whispers, his throat tight around the words. “Guess that’s why I was wanted for the alliance, huh?” 

Keith shrugs. “The Marmora are honored to have you within our clan. It’s— _It’s a wonder to me that your people should willingly part from someone like you._” Keith looks away, blushing. “You could have married anyone you wished.”

Shiro laughs, his smile pained. “I never really thought I’d get married.” He sighs when Keith tilts his head, curious. “My… It was always more important to focus on the good of the universe. What was best.” 

“But what of you?” Keith asks. Shiro stares at him, uncomprehending. Keith makes a soft sound, frustrated, and thinking that he’s mistranslated, mumbles it again in Galran, “_What of you?_” 

Shiro feels all squirmy, pinned down by the question. “Me?” 

Keith’s expression pinches. “Yes. You. How is one as revered as you without friends? Lovers?” 

It seems it’s Keith’s habit of cutting right to the heart of what Shiro’s afraid to admit. That first day meeting him, asking why Shiro felt he was not a warrior. Asking him if he felt unworthy of a mate. And now this. 

The truth is, Shiro isn’t sure of the answer— why it is that he’s never been able to trust someone, in the years he’s been alive. 

He pauses for a long breath and finally settles on, “There wasn’t ever anyone… I never looked.” He shrugs. “Must be a consequence of no, uh, mating look. I mean, people can look at others and be attracted to them. Humans sleep together even without being married, but—” 

He’s getting off-track. Keith’s expression is pinched, either upset or uncomprehending. Or both. 

“I mean… I can be… um, revered,” Shiro says. “But still not be close to anyone. People can be friendly without being friends.” 

“Not Galra,” Keith answers. 

“I guess the Galra don’t do subtle,” Shiro agrees. Keith makes a face, confused, and Shiro sighs and whispers, “Hold on.” 

He turns towards the bedside table, picking up his PADD and typing in a new item to his ever growing list _Things to Explain to Keith when Hunk’s Here._ It’s a list of five items right now. He doesn’t know how he’ll get about explaining this particular tidbit of himself with Hunk present, but he’s willing to try if it means Keith understanding. 

Still, he’s not sure if he could look Keith _or_ Hunk in the eye if he made their poor interpreter explain _one-night stands_ to his husband. 

He turns back to Keith as he sets the list down. “I mean,” he murmurs, “I am… friendly with people. But I haven’t had many friends in my life. Nobody close.” 

“No clan?” Keith asks.

“Not as the Galra have clans,” Shiro agrees. 

Keith frowns deeper. “_Humans are a social species,_” Keith says. “Hunk has told me. Humans need… other humans.” 

Shiro’s smile feels brittle, but he shrugs all the same. “True. But… I guess now I have you?” Keith doesn’t look entirely convinced. Gently, Shiro murmurs, “We’re friends, right? _I am of your clan._” 

Keith continues to frown, but nods, accepting the words. “_You are of my clan._”

“So, I’m fine,” Shiro says— and finds that he means it. “I have you.” 

He knew going into this marriage that he couldn’t expect love— he is an obligation to Keith, after all. But, the smallest part of him had hoped for friendship. He’s grateful for that. He’s not about to shun that gift. 

Keith closes his eyes, sinking against the pillow. He’s quiet, still enough that Shiro wonders if he’s actually fallen asleep. But then his ears quirk, pointed towards Shiro. Keith opens his eyes, deep and dark and staring only at Shiro. 

“You have me,” Keith says, and it sounds like a vow. It makes a small shiver curl down Shiro’s spine. 

It feels profoundly comforting. Shiro breathes out, feeling himself sink into his pillow, in turn, buoyed by the steady presence of Keith’s eyes on him. 

They lie like that on the bed, facing one another. Keith blinks slowly as he regards Shiro and Shiro finds himself mirroring the gesture, his smile soft as he just drinks Keith in. For once in his life, he feels actually sleepy, like he might be able to nod off for more than two doboshes at a time. 

“Do Galra dream?” Shiro asks, after the silence stretches onward.

“Hm?” 

“Some species don’t,” Shiro says. 

“_Spínok’v,_” Keith says. “Dreaming. Yes. We dream.” 

“Good? Bad?” 

Keith’s brow crinkles and shifts. He almost drifts closer, ears flicking up, poised. “Both,” Keith says. “We do not talk of them… unless they are wars won.” 

Shiro isn’t sure if he means it literally or figuratively. If the Galra only dream of fighting or are only meant to dream of fighting, or if the only dreams spoken of are those with proverbial battles won. Shiro knows he faces too many demons in his own dreams. 

“I haven’t had a good dream in years— ah, decaphoebs, I mean,” Shiro murmurs. 

He waits but Keith’s expression doesn’t change— no pity, no sadness, only a quiet sort of understanding. “Because of what they did to you.” 

“Yes,” Shiro agrees. 

“I understand. After my dad died,” Keith says, “I couldn’t sleep.” 

Shiro nods. “Sometimes it’s…” He quiets, unsure how to put voice to these thoughts. He’s never actually spoken it aloud before. But there’s some sort of comfort in the thought that Keith won’t judge, and it’s possible he might not even fully grasp all the words. He breathes out. “Sometimes it’s too much at once. I never sleep anymore. When I do, it’s only bad dreams. I’m tired all the time… Sometimes it’s an effort to just walk through a door and smile.” 

“Humans smile even when they are unhappy,” Keith remarks. “You do that often.” 

Shiro blinks in surprise. “Do I?”

Keith nods. “Even with no _sulad’vok_… I can tell.” Keith frowns. “Humans… lie often?” 

“I don’t think we mean for it to be a lie,” Shiro confesses. “Sometimes it’s easier to smile than to admit what we’re really feeling. It’s just part of us— sometimes we do it without realizing.” 

“Galra cannot hide,” Keith says. “Our _sulad’vok_ speaks for us.” 

“What’s _sulad’vok_?” 

Keith grunts and lifts a hand, dragging his fingers up his throat and gesturing outward, like he’s speaking. “The voice under the voice. Humans… do not have it.” 

“Oh,” Shiro says. “The subharmonics, you mean.” 

“Yes,” Keith says. “Humans can lie because they lack the under-voice. Galra struggle to deceive other Galra, for their words may be one thing but the under-voice reveals another.” 

“We can’t hear it,” Shiro says. 

“I know.” 

There’s some sort of finality to the way Keith says it, a tiredness that touches his heavy gaze upon Shiro. Shiro can’t guess the reason for it, beyond the knowledge that, likely, he has missed far too much of what Keith has tried to tell him over these past movements. 

“I know you have body language, too,” Shiro says. “I know I’m missing a lot. I can’t even picture how the under-voice could change what you’re saying.” 

Keith is silent for a moment too long and breathes out, ears drooping. “Mine is quiet,” Keith says. “Because I am human.” 

Shiro nods. “Oh. Makes sense.” 

“A quiet under-voice means an untrustworthy Galra,” Keith says. “I am unworthy of trust.” 

“Nonsense,” Shiro says, immediately, and watches Keith blink in surprise. “I trust you.” 

Keith’s mouth twitches and he blinks at Shiro, looking vaguely perplexed. A moment later, though, he smiles— it’s a tentative curve in the dark, but his eyes look softer. 

“I do not know what I have done to earn trust,” Keith confesses, quietly. 

“Fishing for compliments?” 

Keith stares at him. “Fish…?” 

“Oh, sorry. Just a human saying,” Shiro says, waving his hand. “But, Keith… I can’t explain it, but I just… I feel like you see me. That you’re listening. You laughed in my face over my cooking, Keith. I’d say that’s pretty honest.” 

Keith snorts. “That gains trust?” 

“For me, sure,” Shiro says. “You don’t need to _earn_ trust, Keith. You have it.” 

Keith blinks at him.

Shiro tilts his head, perplexed by Keith’s reaction. “Am I wrong to trust you?” 

Keith stares at him and then whispers, “_Vídíim wy si d’repit._” 

“Right back at ya, buddy,” Shiro mumbles, unsure what he’s said. The words sound fond, so that’s all Shiro really needs to know. He smiles at Keith and, tentatively, Keith returns the gesture. Shiro watches it light his eyes up— makes him look all the more handsome. 

Maybe someday he can admit as much to Keith. 

It feels silly to be so shy around his _husband_, but then again, this is hardly a standard situation. 

“What’s your under-voice telling me now?” Shiro asks.

Keith breathes out a soft, chuffing sigh. “That you are…” He pauses, blushing, and shakes his head. Quietly, he says, “That you are a remarkable person.” 

Shiro smiles, helplessly. “If I had an under-voice, mine would say that about you, too.” 

Keith’s smile is the last thing Shiro sees before his eyelids grow heavy and, finally, he slips into sleep.

-

Too soon, though, the momentary peace is ripped from him. Shiro’s aware of two things as he wakes up— one, that it’s one of his first nightmares in a while and two, Keith is cuddled up to his chest rather than spooning him, due to how they’ve fallen asleep. 

Shiro’s arms flex around Keith’s body and he gives a low cry as the last dredges of a nightmare scrape over his mind and then leave him shivering in a cold sweat. His cry is loud enough, though, that Keith’s awake— purring ending abruptly, so abrupt that Shiro hadn’t even realized he’d been hearing it until it was gone. Shiro scrambles away, body shuddering, falling away from the gentle feeling of Keith in his arms. 

“Shiro!” Keith calls, sitting up and reaching for Shiro and stopping just before he makes contact, his hands hovering. 

“I’m fine,” Shiro gasps, gulping down air. “I’m fine, Keith. I’m—” 

The words are lies, tumbling out of him. His entire mind is screaming at him to run away, to fight, to put distance between himself and the rest of the world. He’s in the middle of an arena, fighting for his life, blood on his hands, body carved with scars and craving some sort of freedom. He has to fight for it. He’ll never be a human again— just a monster, just an animal screaming for death. He’s sheened in sweat, heart pounding, feeling terrified and cornered.

Keith looks terrified— whether of him or for him, Shiro isn’t sure. His ears are tucked tight against his skull and his hands shake a little where they hover in the air, as if about to reach for Shiro but unsure if he should. 

“I’m fine,” Shiro pants. 

Keith gives a low growl, eyes dark and smoldering and somehow Shiro doesn’t feel afraid, hearing it. It’s Keith. It’s Keith—

He’s trembling, half off the bed and tangled up in the blankets. One leg shoots down to plant his foot on the floor, the other leg bent up to his chest, knee pressing where his heart pounds. 

Keith says, “Breathe with me.” 

Shiro’s eyes skitter over Keith’s face but Keith is relentless, the only thing he can look at in the dark room. Keith exaggerates a heaving breath and Shiro mimics him. When Keith releases his breath, Shiro releases his. 

Like this, Shiro realizes just how light-headed he is. With Keith’s guidance, his breathing returns a little to normal even as his heart continues to gallop away from him. 

“You are safe,” Keith whispers. “_Nothing will happen to you. I will protect you._” 

It’s a promise nobody could ever keep. Not Shiro for himself, not anyone else. But somehow, when Keith says it, all Shiro wants to do is believe it. Keith’s face is fierce and burning in the night and Shiro trusts him. 

He trusts him.

As soon as he feels capable of breathing he slumps, pressing his hands to his face and scrubbing at his cheeks, shivering all over. 

“Sorry, I’m—” He can’t complete the words, unsure what to say, unsure how to put to voice all the things swirling and churning within him. He is a broken vessel, the pieces of him strewn before Keith’s feet. 

“You are safe,” Keith says again, quieter this time. 

Shiro doesn’t have the words to say that he wants to be held. What a strange thing to realize— that he _wants_ to be cradled, to be protected. He’s never wanted that before. 

He heaves in a breath and lets it back out again and, slowly, drops his hands from his face. He feels fatigued in a way he can’t express. 

He looks up at Keith and finds his eyes trained on him, solid and steady as he gazes at him, assessing him. From anyone else, he would feel overly exposed. From Keith, it’s almost comforting to be held under such a heavy gaze. He is seen. He is present. He isn’t about to blow apart in an arena. 

“Bad _spínok’v_,” Shiro offers with a wan smile. 

“You are smiling,” Keith observes. “You do not need to lie to me.”

The smile slips from Shiro’s face before it’s even fully formed. His heart is a hummingbird beating itself to death within his chest. But still, there’s something comforting in the words as Keith speaks them, steady and sure. No artifice. Only the truth. 

It’s only Keith. 

“I feel like shit,” Shiro says and if he weren’t feeling so punched-out, he’d find Keith’s vaguely alarmed expression amusing. Clearly the slang doesn’t translate right away but, a moment later, Keith’s expression dawns with understanding. _Shit_ is a universal constant, it seems. 

“How do I help?” Keith asks. 

Shiro shakes his head. “_I hear your words_,” he sighs. “But… No. I don’t know. I won’t be able to sleep again tonight.” He laughs, dryly, before he remembers he doesn’t have to lie and lets his fatigue slump his mouth into a frown. “Guess I’ll go walk around. Distract myself. You should go back to sleep, Keith.”

Keith’s expression pinches, as if the very suggestion is outrageous, and he gives a derisive snort. Shiro can only guess what his subharmonics must be doing. Still, Keith unfolds himself from the bed and stands, straying to the chest where he keeps his clothes. 

He kneels, digging, and returns back to the bed, sitting cross-legged before Shiro and showing him a little stack of metallic disks. 

“What’s that?” Shiro asks. 

Keith grunts again and shows him— the disks are all the same on one side, a pattern of red geometric shapes. On the other side, the disks differ— some with flower designs and others with daggers. The flowers are more abundant in number, each one unique and blooming. Keith divides it up, a stack of flowers with a black background in front of Shiro and a red background in front of Keith. The daggers, both black and red backgrounded, are all different styles of Marmoran blades. 

Shiro stares at them as Keith divides them up, an even stack of flowers between them and an even stack of daggers. 

“Oh!” Shiro says as he realizes. “Playing cards!” 

Keith nods, looking proud of him in a way that makes Shiro want to flush. 

“This will distract you,” Keith says, confidently. 

“You want to play a game,” Shiro clarifies and Keith nods. 

Keith struggles to explain the rules, resulting in hand gestures and even pulling out his sketchbook to demonstrate a smaller point through illustration. Shiro’s sure the frustration alone will prevent Keith from ever playing the game with him again, but Shiro’s grateful for the effort. Trying to parse Keith’s words proves a solid distraction from his anxious mind. 

The best Shiro can surmise is it is, at its heart, a betting game. They take turns, placing one card at a time, face down, and create alternate piles. Then, once placed, they take turns betting how many flowers they’ll be able to reveal before they see a dagger. They keep betting higher and higher until someone is challenged to reveal. Whoever wins the challenge gets to reveal the flowers— if they hit the number, they gain a card from their opponent. If they lose, they lose a card for the remainder of the game. Whoever has all the cards in the end wins. 

At least, this is Shiro’s understanding of the game. He has the feeling that Keith’s dumbing the game down for him, but struggling to understand Keith’s words and to strategize does what it’s meant to: he’s distracted. 

Of course, like all things with Keith, it’s clear his husband plays to win. Shiro can’t help his delighted laugh when Keith is bold enough to bet that he can reveal seven flowers before a dagger. Shiro watches Keith flip the cards, revealing flower after flower— but only gets to six before flipping a dagger. 

A second laugh punches out of him at Keith’s scandalized look, his ears flicking up and down like they can’t decide what to do. Keith looks up at him, eyes wide and then narrowing. He gives a low growl, but it seems more teasing than true anger, and Shiro grins back at him. 

They play several rounds. Shiro is, for the most part, utterly demolished every time. He loses so many of his flowers that he struggles with the strategy of it towards the bottom of his hand. He could discard his last dagger and guarantee he can only put down flowers from here on out— making it easier for Keith to pull a victory. Or he can discard another one of his flowers and make it all the harder for him to win, in turn, stuck with daggers. 

Shiro discards a flower. He’s always been one to take risks, after all. 

They distribute their cards for this round, creating uneven four piles of disks. Once finished, Shiro holds up five fingers as his opening bet and watches Keith’s eyes widen and then narrow. He answers with six fingers. Shiro holds up seven and Keith meets him with nine. Shiro’s eyes widen at the jump in betting— usually, they one-up each other until one of them folds. Keith’s eyes are glowing, confident and determined. 

It’s a gamble, but Shiro huffs and holds up both his hands— ten disks before a dagger. Keith looks absolutely triumphant as he smirks and gestures for Shiro to reveal.

The first card Shiro flips is a dagger and he gapes down at it as Keith hoots a delighted laugh. 

“You tricked me!” Shiro gasps, jerking his head up to stare at Keith. Keith only grins at him, wicked and painfully handsome. 

Shiro’s left with one disk in his hand. He knows he’s doomed— there’s no way he can win this. It’s only a matter of time. 

He tries Keith’s gambit— betting seven flowers as his opening bid. But Keith just smirks, tips his chin up, and says, “Reveal, Shiro.” 

Shiro sighs, ducking his head and accepting his defeat. He reaches for the disks and flips the first card— a dagger. He’s finished. 

“Remind me never to teach you poker,” Shiro says as Keith laughs at him. It’s worth it to lose so utterly and soundly if only because Keith’s laugh is, quite frankly, beautiful. Shiro sighs, slumping. “Thank you, Keith.” 

Keith smiles as he collects the disks together and sets them aside. He scoots over on the mattress, closer to Shiro although not quite bridging the distance between them. Outside the window, the Altean sun starts washing the garden with the beginning rays of light. Morning again. 

“Did this help?” Keith asks, quietly. 

Shiro nods, “Yeah. You have no idea.” 

Keith looks down, his smile shy— bashful. He shuffles the disks, fiddling with them, stacking them into a large pile in the palm of his hand. He looks soft in the rising morning light— the encroaching dawn flushing him with light, his eyelashes fanning across his cheeks, his mouth tilted into an easy smile. 

“I’m glad,” Keith answers. He looks up to him. “Shiro… if I can help you, I will. If there’s ever something I can do, I will do it.” 

Shiro nods, breathing out. He wants to pull Keith into his arms— hug him tight, demonstrate how grateful he feels. But he remains sitting before Keith, letting the morning light pour in through the windows. 

“Any time you wish to play,” Keith says, then pauses and smirks, “Any time you wish to _lose_, I will play with you.”

“Hey,” Shiro says as Keith laughs again. “If you let me practice, I’ll win.” 

“I look forward to you finding the strength to beat me, husband,” Keith teases. 

Something in Keith’s tone makes Shiro flush. It’s not the first time he’s reacted this way to Keith calling him _husband_, the steady weight of his eyes upon him. Shiro doesn’t know what Galran flirting habits are like— but it’s difficult to imagine this is anything but flirting. 

His heart gives a pathetic flutter in his chest. 

“I… Maybe I’ll teach you some Terran games next time,” Shiro says, weakly. 

Keith nods, the Altean sun behind him framing his face in light. “_I look forward to our next battle._” 

-

Several days later, Shiro sits at the grand breakfast table and watches the Galran mated pair coil their tails together. Shiro eats his Altean oatmeal and wonders at how downright _touchy-feely_ the Galra actually are. He never actually noticed before just how tactile they are, but perhaps it’s a matter of clan and connection. The Galra visiting for the delegation are all much the same. The mated pair is one thing, but there are clanmates who touch each other easily. 

Everyone, that is, except Keith. 

It’s impossible not to notice the distance Keith puts between them, even now. While Keith doesn’t yank away at the first touch between them, Shiro can’t say Keith initiates connection. There’s the night, when Keith sleeps, of course. And there’s when they spar in the garden. But otherwise, there is always a distance between them. 

At the same time— Shiro isn’t blind to the fact that he and Keith are getting along well now. They’re friends. There are times when, yes, he feels like Keith might be flirting with him, or at least teasing him. 

But this feels like yet another conversation he’s missed— a way in which he and Keith aren’t meeting halfway. 

Keith eats his meal beside him, legs tucked beneath him and eyes downcast as he eats, paying the mated pair or anyone else no mind.

“Keith,” Shiro says, gently, and waits for Keith to look up at him before he speaks again. “Will you walk in the garden with me today?” 

Hunk glances up from his meal and begins to translate for Keith, but he gets halfway through before Keith smiles at Shiro and nods. 

“Yes, Shiro.” 

Keith’s eyes are on his, refusing to look away. They go quiet for a moment, simply looking into one another’s eyes. 

“Uh,” Hunk says, clearing his throat and breaking them from the moment. “Am I going with you guys or is this another one of your weird dates?” 

Keith tilts his head as Shiro sputters, dropping his spoon. It clatters loudly into his bowl, grabbing the attention of the other Galra and Humans in attendance. They glance up towards the head of the table. 

“Hunk,” Shiro says, strained. He fumbles for his spoon, picking it back up again. “What?” 

“What?” Hunk asks, paling. “Isn’t that— I mean. You guys sneak off together all the time and don’t ask me to come along. Not that I want to be around when you two are, you know—” 

Keith looks between the two of them, brow pinching and waiting for some translation. Shiro, meanwhile, feels his entire face burn bright cherry red. He drops his spoon again, summoning the attention from the rest of the table once more. 

“It’s not like that!” he gasps, embarrassed beyond measure. “You have the wrong idea! We’re just _talking!_” 

“I mean, my job is to help you translate—” 

“Keith speaks some Terran! I’ve been studying my Galran! The universal translator updates itself!” Shiro moans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Holy shit, Hunk.” 

He’s not sure what’s more mortifying: the judgmental gazes of the Galra as Shiro keeps interrupting breakfast, or the knowledge that their interpreter thinks they’re having sex in a garden. 

Shiro _shouldn’t_ be embarrassed. They are married. It occurs to him that most everyone probably assumes they’re sleeping together. 

But that’s just mortifying to think about. 

“I mean,” Hunk says, holding up his hands. “You two _are_ married. It’s fine if you want—” 

“Hunk!” 

“I mean, no judgement,” Hunk says. “I’m glad things are going well and—” 

“_Hunk_!” 

Keith looks between the two of them, brow pinching. He says something waspish to Hunk— Shiro’s translator picks up _you are distressing him—_ before Shiro stops listening, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

Far more gently than how he addressed Hunk, Keith asks, “Shiro… What is it?” 

Shiro grunts, ears turning pink. “Hunk thought we…” 

He looks helplessly over at Hunk. Hunk lifts his eyebrows. “Oh, heck no. I’m not translating this.” He holds up his hands in a placating manner. “He looks like he’s going to murder me cause I made you blush.” 

It’s true that Keith’s shooting Hunk a highly suspicious look, fueled on by Shiro’s reaction. Red-faced, Shiro clears his throat and heaves a breath. 

“Keith,” he says, quietly, drawing Keith’s attention back to him. Keith’s eyes lock onto his and hold. He looks at Shiro, expectantly. “Hunk, he… He thought we were… not talking.” 

Keith tilts his head. He turns to Hunk and says something. Hunk helpfully translates: “I fail to see how that should embarrass you.” 

Shiro shoots Hunk a dirty look anyway before he turns back to Keith, meeting his eyes. “He thought we were doing other… things.”

Keith blinks at him, as if waiting for something else. He blinks again, brow furrowing and ears quirking back. Shiro silently despairs, sure he’s going to have to say it out loud— and it’s not as if he knows the Galran word for sex—

But then Shiro sees the moment the words finally connect. His eyes fly wide open and his ears flick straight up. He stares at Hunk, bewildered, and then back to Shiro. He opens his mouth and then, quickly, snaps his face away. He ducks his head, blushing. 

He looks just as embarrassed and uncomfortable as Shiro feels. 

Shiro only realizes then how much he’s gotten used to the weight of Keith’s gaze. His discomfort at the conversation is clear— and makes Shiro all the more aware of the space between them. They’re no Galran mated pair, not truly. They’re just two strangers doing their best to be friends.

Shiro ignores the dull ache in his chest. 

“Look, would you just help me translate _these_ to Keith, then?” Shiro snaps, unnecessarily annoyed and feeling skittish. He pulls his PADD from his pocket and pulls up his list on _Things to Explain to Keith When Hunk is There._ So far the list consists of: “fishing for compliments”, hoverbike design and maintenance, koi ponds, and poker. 

He shoves it towards Hunk with a scowl, unable to look at Keith for the rest of breakfast. 

-

Later, after breakfast, Shiro and Keith go out into the gardens. They walk in silence for a while, just observing the different plants and enjoying the sun. Shiro watches, smiling to himself, as Keith closes his eyes and tips his face back to meet the sun. He does that often, looking every bit like a sunbathing cat in a patch of sunlight. 

Shiro glances around to make sure they’re alone before he says, “I’m sorry about Hunk, earlier.” 

Keith blinks his eyes open, looking over towards Shiro, his head tilted. One ear quirks up towards him, the other flicking away. 

“It is… alright, Shiro.” 

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” Shiro insists, remembering how embarrassed and mortified Keith looked when he turned his face away. “I can talk to him. Humans, we… we tend to—” He frowns, unsure how to put this to words. “We see and assume romance everywhere.” 

“Romance?” Keith parrots, turning his face away to watch the flowers as they walk. They sway in the breeze. 

“Uh… the way two mates would act,” Shiro elaborates, blushing. “Like— kissing. Er, what we did at the end of our wedding.” 

“No, I— I know what romance is,” Keith mutters. His ears flick around and he runs his fingertips along the tall sealgrass as they pass through it. “The Galra love, remember?” 

“Right. Obviously.” Shiro’s an idiot. He bites his lip. “For you— er, for your people… mates touch each other a lot, right?” 

Shiro stills and, with him, Keith pauses on the path. Finally, Keith looks back up at him, examining his face. 

Tentatively, he nods. It feels like an admission— proof, then, that Keith’s been purposeful in not touching him. Shiro can guess the reason for it— their awkward beginnings, of course, and the fact that they’re _not_ in love. They’re hardly a conventional mating pair. Keith doesn’t look at him the way a mate would look, in the end. They’re friends, sure, and Shiro’s grateful for that. But he knows he’d never be Keith’s first choice in a mate. 

“The two mates in your clan… Boj and Pe’vok,” Shiro says. “They twine their tails. Is that common?” 

Keith blushes and nods. “For those with tails, yes.” 

“What about those without tails?” 

Keith frowns. One hand lifts, absently curling his fingers around his braid and holding. He fidgets. “Other things,” he hedges. He hesitates. “They— we… We ask our mate to—” He grunts, embarrassed, and stops talking. He doesn’t continue the thought. “Why do you ask me?” 

“I’m curious,” Shiro answers. 

“Then… to be curious, what do human mates do to show… romance?” Keith asks. It’s avoidance, Shiro realizes with a small spark of surprise. He wonders what it is that Keith isn’t saying about Galran romantic habits. 

“Kissing, like I said,” Shiro says, graciously accepting the change in focus. “Ah, hand-holding, too. Other things. I mean… sometimes it’s just the way it feels, no specific action.” He hums, considering. “Some people might hug. Others might say kind things. Others might just smile at each other.” 

“But humans are lying when they smile,” Keith protests, distressed.

“Not always,” Shiro explains. “They smile when they’re happy. Or when they’re in love. When they care about someone.” 

“How are you meant to know the difference between them all?” Keith mutters. He still sounds distressed, his brow pinching. He tugs on his braid. 

Shiro feels a lead weight drop through his stomach. How many times has Keith seen Shiro smile and believed him to be lying in some way? 

“When you see enough of them, you can usually tell,” Shiro says. 

It’s a simplification, but even if they both were fluent in Terran, Shiro’s not sure he’d have the vocabulary necessary to explain the complexity of Terran social conventions. 

Pressing onward, Shiro says, “So, then… touching.” 

Keith looks up at him, studying his face. Shiro resists the urge to smile, afraid of how Keith might interpret the action if he’s under the impression that smiles are always lies. He keeps his face relaxed, untensed in the same way he’s seen Keith do when he’s content. 

“What about it?” Keith asks. He finally drops his hand from his hair. 

“Keith,” Shiro murmurs. “You have to help me here… You know I can’t hear your under-voice. I need help to understand what you need.” 

It should hurt more to admit it. Keith blinks at him in surprise and then glances down. His eyelashes do that thing again— fanning gently over his cheeks. He looks gentle, standing there in the sun. Beautiful. 

“Why do you care?” Keith asks. It doesn’t sound like an accusation. Keith sighs and asks, “What do you wish to know?” 

“To me… it looks as if the members of your clan touch one another often. They’re, um, tactile. But you aren’t.” 

“These members of my clan do not _wish_ to touch me,” Keith says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

_I am an untrustworthy Glara,_ Keith told him before. He remembers, too, what he said about being only part Galra. Shiro feels an ember of anger flare to life in Shiro’s chest, outrage on Keith’s behalf. 

“But do _you_ wish to be touched?” 

“It is… painful when we are not. No, not painful,” Keith grunts. He frowns, frustrated, and touches his chest. He murmurs something in Galran. It takes a moment, but it finally translates: _Anxiety._ “We… we are meant to be touched. It feels— wrong not to.” 

As soon as Shiro hears the words, it makes sense. Humans are social creatures. It isn’t surprising that the Galra would be, too— they live in clans, tight-knit groups. He imagines there should be an evolutionary element to it, as there is with humans and their socializing. 

“You should have told me,” Shiro protests. But Keith shakes his head, dismissing the words. “Is that why— when we sleep—” 

Keith blushes, shoulders going rigid. He looks away again, as if waiting for a reprimand from Shiro. 

“I seek my mate,” Keith murmurs, apologetically. “I can’t help it.” 

Shiro thinks he’s starting to see the picture. If Keith isn’t getting the touch he needs— separated from his mother and, perhaps, the members of his clan he knows better than the delegates here— it stands to reason that a mating bond would require the physical touch, too. Just another example of how Shiro’s failed Keith, it seems. 

It takes all of Shiro’s restraint not to just yank Keith to his chest and hug him tight. He’s not sure how Keith would take that. 

Instead, Shiro reaches his hand up and holds it out. He hovers for a moment, considering— perhaps the shoulder, something neutral but initiating touch. Something simple. 

He hesitates too long, though. Keith puzzles at his hand, frowning, and then reaches his hand up, too, parroting Shiro’s stance. He presses his hand up against Shiro’s, palm to palm. It looks so slender pressed to Shiro’s— strong and sure, but gentle, his long fingers elegant and soft with his downy fur. 

Neither of them draw away. Shiro watches some of the tension ease from Keith’s shoulders just from this simple touch. He really has been neglecting him. 

Shiro watches Keith as he studies their hands, sliding his palm against Shiro’s so he can cover the full expanse of his palm and fingers. Tentatively, Keith shifts his fingers so they slot through Shiro’s. 

Then, definitively, he folds his fingers down, gripping Shiro’s hand. If Shiro had to guess, he’d say that Keith seems to like it— his eyes soften, just a little, ears quirking forward as he studies their hands. Shiro folds his fingers down like Keith’s, slotting his fingertips between Keith’s knuckles. 

It’s the most roundabout way he’s ever held someone’s hand before, but it’s still nice. 

“Does this help?” Shiro asks. 

Keith’s still and silent for a beat too long. Tentatively, he nods his head and glances up at Shiro. He meets his eyes and they fall into that familiar staring they do. 

“Does this bother you?” Keith asks, quietly. 

Shiro puzzles at the question, frowning. “Why should it?” 

Keith blinks at him. “You do not wish to be touched.” 

“What?” 

They stare at each other, the Altean sunbirds tweeting cheerfully above them in the antovian trees. Keith looks distressed for a moment, ears pressing back, looking from their hands up to Shiro, as if searching for some sort of answer. Shiro thinks that Keith’s about to pull away and tightens his hold on their hands, refusing to let him pull back again. 

Keith is too much like the tide. He doesn’t want him to draw away. 

“You… do not wish to be touched,” Keith insists, although he sounds uncertain. “By me.” 

“I—” Shiro wracks his mind, searching for a time when he might have said as much to Keith. It’s _Keith_ who’s been the distant one, though, his mind rationalizes. “Keith,” he begins again, blinking at him. “Why do you think that?”

Keith’s brow furrows— concentration as he translates. His frustration is visible and he looks uncertain, ears flat against his skull and hand tight on Shiro’s, grip unrelenting. 

“I know Humans are sensitive to such things,” Keith hedges, but he looks less certain than he did a moment ago. 

“Some, sure,” Shiro agrees. “Nobody likes it when a stranger touches them suddenly. But, Keith… you’re not a stranger. Not to me.” He licks his lips. “I thought— I thought you didn’t want to touch _me_.” 

Keith blinks up at him, eyes widening. His pupils do that strange slitting thing they always do when Keith’s concentrating. Shiro’s always found it fascinating, watching the changes in Keith’s eyes, the flood of color in the confusion. Keith’s brows pinch together as he focuses, staring at Shiro. 

“It is…” Keith pauses, looking uncertain. “It is comforting to hold you.” 

The words flood through Shiro. He thinks he might gasp, or at least inhales sharply enough that Keith picks up on the sound, if his shivering ears are any indication. 

“Okay,” Shiro murmurs. “Keith…” 

“Yes?”

Shiro sighs. Testing, Shiro squeezes Keith’s hand and watches him inhale, biting his lip with the edge of a fang. 

“I’m not— I’m not good at any of this,” Shiro says. “If there are things you need from me, you have to tell me. I miss so much. It isn’t because I don’t want to help you… I just don’t know what it is you need.” 

Keith’s expression ripples— something guilty flashing in his eyes before disappearing again. He looks down, going still.

“I know,” Keith admits. He doesn’t elaborate, but his reaction is enough to make Shiro think there’s plenty more that Keith hasn’t told him. Quietly, Keith says, “_I did not want you to feel… you _had_ to touch me. If it was something you didn’t want._” 

Shiro thinks back to that first day, when Keith took his hand, when he pressed his mouth to the tendons of his wrist. He hasn’t done that since their wedding day. 

Frowning, Shiro stares down at their hands. And then, feeling bold, he lifts their hands and uncurls their fingers enough to turn Keith’s hand, exposing his wrist. Shiro takes a breath and ducks his head down, licking over Keith’s wrist in a wide, wet stripe. 

Keith startles. “Shiro!” 

Shiro stares into his eyes, unblinking. “That’s what you did on our wedding night, right? Did I do it right?” 

Keith stares at him and then his mouth wobbles like he’s holding back a bewildered smile. “You did it wrong.” 

“I told you that humans don’t usually do this,” Shiro protests. “So…” He turns his wrist to Keith, offering it. “_Show me?_” 

Keith hesitates, glancing up at Shiro one last time. But he must see something in Shiro’s eyes because he moves to cup Shiro’s wrist, thumb pressing into the tendons. He’s tentative as he leans down, nuzzling at his wrist. He noses at it, inhaling just a little before he presses his mouth to the spot just below the knobby bone of his wrist. Keith licks in tentative little swipes. 

Shiro feels his heart leap into his throat and then drop back down, some sort of strange sensation he isn’t used to. Keith’s tongue is almost scratchy against his skin, a sensation he hadn’t felt that first night when Keith licked his metal wrist instead. 

“Is this…” Shiro pauses, his voice sounding graveled out. “Is this for mates?” 

“Yes,” Keith says, simply, and takes Shiro’s other hand, licking and nuzzling at his prosthetic wrist. “Mates are meant to smell like each other. We share in each other.” 

The change over Keith is almost instant. Shiro watches him relax, nearly going boneless right there on his feet. He licks at Shiro’s wrists, eyes going half-lidded. When he’s finished, he nuzzles at both of Shiro’s palms before, slowly, he straightens. He blinks up at Shiro, slowly— looking utterly satisfied and relaxed. 

Shiro didn’t realize how tense Keith actually was until this moment. 

Keith gives the quietest, purring laugh when Shiro lifts his wrists and mimics him, attempting to scent him in turn. He’s awkward with it, unsure for how long or what, exactly, to do, but Keith allows it all the same. 

“Okay?” Shiro asks in a low voice, sounding throaty even to his own ears.

“Okay,” Keith murmurs back, eyes smoldering in the light of day.

“And Keith?” Shiro says, waiting for Keith to nod. “Just to be clear: you can touch me as much as you want. I’m here.” 

Keith shivers, tucking his chin down. “_I hear your words._” He takes Shiro’s hand again, experimentally tangling their fingers together. Keith tilts his head, his smile gentler now. “And I will touch you as you need, as well.” 

Shiro smiles back, helpless. He feels warmed all over, relaxed now to see Keith so calm. It feels natural to stand here in the garden with Keith, to feel so seen and known. To have reached this new understanding. 

“Then…?” Shiro begins, pausing. “Do the Galra hug?” 

Keith ducks his head and nods. He steps towards Shiro and Shiro’s there to welcome him, wrapping his arms around him. Keith sighs out and sinks against him, hiding his face against Shiro’s shoulder. 

Shiro hugs him tight. If he could, he’d never let go. 

It’s a step forward. Shiro’s grateful for that, and grateful for the knowledge— another way he can be a better mate for Keith. And Shiro knows that’s what he wants— that he wants to do the best he can to make Keith happy. 

Seeing him like this, warm and gentle in the sun, Shiro knows it goes beyond just a wish for friendship. He wants Keith to be happy. 

_Oh,_ Shiro realizes, a distant thought hitting the well of his thoughts and rippling outward. _I _like_ him._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm truly so sorry I haven't caught up on comments for the last chapter yet! But, thank you, truly, for everyone's kind words. It really means a lot; I hope you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Gen for reading this chapter over for me.

In the end, Shiro isn’t surprised that he has a crush on his husband. 

Keith is kind. Already in the time they’ve known each other, Keith has done more than Shiro likely deserves. Shiro’s never put much thought into his _type_ before, but certainly anything he can think of, Keith is. Kind, strong, fun, considerate, and… 

Well, Shiro feels like he could go on forever. 

Keith looks at Shiro and Shiro feels like he’s _seen_. 

Shiro knows he’s no good at this; it’s been a long time since his last relationship. And he has no roadmap to navigate this particular situation— he’s already married to Keith, after all. It’s like Hunk said: it isn’t as if expecting romance from a married couple is out of the ordinary. 

But it’s Keith. Shiro’s sure he’s not mistaken that, at times, Keith will flirt with him. But flirting is very different from a crush, and a crush is very different from love. 

That thought makes him pause. In his lap, his PADD loaded up with his next Galran lesson gives a pathetic cheep when he strikes the wrong key and misspells a simple word. 

He feels movement behind his shoulder as Keith peeks over Shiro’s shoulder, looking at what he’s working on. He at least doesn’t laugh at Shiro’s simple mistake. Or, if he does, Shiro doesn’t hear it— too aware of Keith’s hovering presence, the ghost of his breath against the shell of his ear. An ear that’s quickly turning pink as he full-face blushes. 

Shiro turns his head to find Keith regarding him. No judgement in his eyes for the mistake, although Shiro knows not to expect it. If anything, Keith’s quietly curious. 

“I’m distracted,” Shiro confesses, staring into Keith’s eyes. 

Keith tilts his head. “Language-learning is difficult,” he says, not pitying but merely observing. “_Especially if you haven’t slept well._” 

That much is true. It’s early morning in their bedroom, the Altean sun dusting the ground outside. There’s still some time before breakfast will be served. 

Shiro’s awake now after a long night of sleeping only in fits and starts. He’d found comfort in the sound of Keith’s unrelenting purr, as always, in the feeling of Keith’s nose pressing into the back of his neck. But, as always, he’s been awake since before dawn. 

“Yeah,” Shiro says, and fights back his automatic smile— a defense mechanism he’s now aware of ever since Keith’s pointed it out. He keeps his expression neutral and lets the fatigue tug at the corners of his mouth and eyes. There’s no sense in hiding. Not from Keith. 

_I seek my mate,_ Keith told him as way of explanation for the sleeping-clinging. Shiro wonders if it runs as deep as Keith knowing Shiro’s in need of some healing, if that’s what the purr’s meant to encourage. Or maybe it just doesn’t go that deep. 

Keith still hesitates before he reaches for Shiro. 

“I…” Keith begins, and then seems to abandon whatever he was about to say. He finally curls his arms around Shiro’s shoulders instead, draping himself against Shiro’s back. His hold is tight, surer now, and he hugs Shiro.

Shiro closes his eyes, just letting himself feel it. Keith is like a furnace, burning at his back. With a deep sigh, Shiro slumps backwards, relaxing against Keith— knowing that, despite his size, Keith will be able to support his weight. He feels the deep stirring of Keith’s purr buried in his chest, although it doesn’t fully manifest. 

Shiro sets his PADD off to the side and lifts his hand, covering one of Keith’s where it rests against Shiro’s collarbone. 

“I hope you will sleep,” Keith finally says, his voice quiet. 

“Thank you,” Shiro answers, unsure what else he can say. He’s gotten used to a three-hour sleep cycle— just enough to keep him from slipping into sleep-deprivation hallucinations but not enough to ever let him feel fully rested. 

He opens his eyes as he feels Keith pull back and turns to face him more fully, meeting his eyes. 

He wishes it were easier for him— he’s no expert in romance. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do in this situation. For all Shiro’s strengths and talents, he’s never considered himself very successful in romantic partnerships. 

And Keith, he thinks, deserves the best. He deserves devotion and romance. He offers his own so easily— whether by choice or by evolutionary mandate, Shiro’s not sure— and Shiro’s never been used to being anybody’s priority, romantic or otherwise. 

“Breakfast is probably ready soon,” Shiro says. 

Keith nods and makes no move to pull away from Shiro, hovering in that liminal space between too far away and not close enough. Shiro stays like that, too, hovering. 

But, eventually, they will need to go eat. Shiro shifts a little, as if to pull back. 

“Shiro,” Keith murmurs. “Wait.” 

Shiro does and watches Keith offer his hands to him. Realizing what Keith’s asking for, Shiro places his hands in Keith’s, palms up. 

He watches Keith’s shoulders relax and then lift first one hand and then the other, scenting his wrists. Shiro watches Keith’s eyes go hooded, his expression slowly relax as he nuzzles and licks at the tendons of Shiro’s wrist, the meat of his palm. It’s nearly too much, the feeling of Keith’s tongue against his skin, the gentlest bite of his teeth as he mouths at his body. Shiro might actually have to bite back a pathetic whimper, his face red. 

He breathes out when Keith moves to his Galran hand. He does the same as before, licking and pressing his lips against the cool metal, nuzzling into Shiro’s palm. Shiro fights back the urge to just cup his cheek and cradle him close. 

“Do you feel with this?” Keith asks, squeezing his fingers around Shiro’s metal wrist. 

Shiro nods. “Not like with my other hand, but… yeah. I can feel sensation.” 

Keith nods, closing his eyes and nuzzling at Shiro’s hand, his mouth pressed in a lingering slide of tongue and lips against his wrist. Shiro watches Keith sigh and tip his face forward once he’s done, butting his forehead against Shiro’s palm before he withdraws. 

His eyes are dark when he looks at Shiro. Helplessly, Shiro can only stare back at him. 

“Do I smell like you?” Shiro asks. 

“_You are mine,_” Keith says, voice graveled out. 

Shiro’s throat clicks as he swallows. He nods his head, helpless. Keith has no idea how right he is. 

-

Shiro might not have many skills in romance, but he knows the importance of gestures. After breakfast, Keith sets himself up in the garden to work on some sketching in his notebook. He looks perfectly content to spend the afternoon like that, and so Shiro takes his leave, heading to the Altean open-air market. 

It’s strange to walk through it again; the last time he was here was right after his wedding. The stalls are switched around and there’s different wares this time, but Shiro can remember his feeling of despair and emptiness as he walked through it before. It feels different now. 

Strange to think about how much can change in just over a phoeb. 

Regardless, he’s here for a purpose: find a gift for Keith. It seems the right start. He doesn’t know what the customs for gift-giving are among the Galra, but he hopes it can at least broadcast some of his intentions when it comes to Keith. 

He feels like a child with his first crush— unsure how to proceed and unsure what to do. He passes by each stall, regarding the artisan crafts, and finds very little that seems appropriate for Keith. He can’t imagine Keith has much need for zyo-crystal goblets or earthenware bowls. 

He stares for a long time at a hairbrush when he comes across a stand selling hair accessories. He picks the brush up, contemplating it. He knows Keith spends a lot of time in the morning brushing his hair, but the comb he uses seems to work well enough, and he’s unsure if Keith would prefer the brush’s bristles over a comb’s teeth. 

He sets the brush back, sighing out his frustration at his inability to find a suitable gift. But then his eyes fall on the ribbons draped over a decorative wooden branch whittled to look like an Altean tree. They sway in the slight breeze, weighted down at the ends with bright beads to keep them from blowing away. 

Shiro reaches out, thumbing a bright red ribbon. It slips across his fingertips. It’s made of Altean turkbird feathers, soft as silk and vibrant in the midday sun. 

He has no idea if Keith would like something like this, but it’s also the first thing he’s found that seems at least somewhat appropriate. He hesitates only for a breath, waffling on whether to fork over the GAC or not.

And then he thinks of Keith’s braid, tied off with this ribbon— getting to see it as Keith drapes his hair over his shoulder and smiles at Shiro. 

After that, it’s easy enough to hand over the money. 

-

Shiro returns to the garden, searching for Keith. He runs into a few diplomats touring the gardens instead, walking along the paths. The humans he meets nod at him in greeting but don’t pause for conversation. He encounters one Galra, who gives him a long stare— different, Shiro realizes, quite different, from the way Keith looks at him. More steely. 

He returns to the spot he left Keith, but his husband is nowhere to be found. Shiro frowns, looking around to see if Keith’s nearby, having found a new spot to keep drawing. 

His eyes glance past the windows of their bedroom and finds Keith perched on a chair in their room. Shiro blinks in surprise and then lifts his hand to wave. Keith’s too far away, obscured by the glass, so Shiro can’t make out his expression— and remembers belatedly that perhaps Keith doesn’t know what a wave even is. But after a moment, Keith waves back. 

Shiro feels his heart leap in his chest. It’s a stupid feeling but leaves Shiro feeling a little giddy. He feels himself losing his nerve, the ribbon coiled up in his pocket. Maybe it’s too small a gesture, or too big, even. Maybe Keith won’t like it. Maybe Shiro’s just making a fool of himself. 

Through the window, Keith makes a gesture— beckoning Shiro to join him. 

Shiro doesn’t run to their room because that would be stupid, but he does walk briskly down the High Council hallways on the way back to their quarters. 

Keith’s already turned towards the door when Shiro enters, although he’s ducked over his sketchbook. When he glances up to see Shiro, he flushes, then closes and sets it aside. He stands, taking a step towards Shiro. 

“I—” Keith frowns, pausing. “Welcome back? That is the phrase?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. 

Keith nods, satisfied. “Welcome back, Shiro.” 

“You moved back inside,” Shiro observes as he lets the door slide shut behind him and steps towards Keith. 

“There were too many people in the garden.” Shiro watches Keith’s ears flick back as he glances over his shoulder, looking through the window. He sighs. “I didn’t…” 

“Well,” Shiro says, when Keith trails off, embarrassed. “We do have a good view from our window.” 

Keith glances up at him, ears twitching forward, and nods his head. “Yes.” 

Shiro feels himself hesitate again. It’s stupid. He’s fearless in the face of everything else— and yet this, somehow, terrifies him. It’s a ribbon. It’s Keith. He’s being stupid. 

“I— I bought something for you,” Shiro announces. 

He’s grateful to have just said it, if only because he gets to watch Keith’s cheeks flush a deep red, standing out against his purple cheeks. 

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” Shiro says. 

Keith stares at him, perplexed. “_What did you say?_” 

Shiro laughs. “Oh. Uh. It’s a human thing. Sorry.” 

He ducks his head, clearing his throat as he sticks his hand in his pocket. He curls his fingers gently around the ribbon— mindful not to crease it— and feels that stupid nervousness again. He glances up at Keith again to find him waiting patiently, head tilted as he regards Shiro.

“Okay,” Shiro breathes, softly to himself, and draws out the ribbon and presents it. Keith makes the softest sound as Shiro uncurls his fingers from around the red ribbon. Somehow, it feels even brighter in their little room. 

Keith opens his mouth and then shuts it again, just staring at the ribbon. For one terrifying moment, Shiro fears he’s managed some other faux pas— he really needs a manual on these things— but Keith doesn’t look insulted or disgusted, only taken aback. 

“It’s for your hair,” Shiro says, and then cringes. “I mean, of course it’s for your hair— I just meant—” 

He really does feel like a teenager again. He’s never felt quite so stupid as he does right now, standing in front of his _husband_ and flubbing his way through a gift. 

His heart might actually stutter in his chest when Keith chuckles, though, so soft he nearly misses it. His hand lifts, covering Shiro’s, his fingertips glancing across the ribbon. 

“Yes, I understand,” Keith murmurs and then looks up at Shiro. “Thank you.” 

Shiro notes the Terran-style ‘thank you’ and nods his head. “You’re welcome.” 

Keith brushes his thumb over the ribbon. He lingers, a moment longer than strictly necessary, before he takes the ribbon and pulls from Shiro’s palm. Shiro feels the loss fully and, despite himself, feels himself blush. 

“I’m not sure about how the Galra give gifts,” he confesses. “I hope I didn’t, uh, mess it up.” 

Keith hums, but doesn’t seem concerned. His eyelashes ghost across his cheeks as he brushes his thumb along the length of the ribbon, admiring it. The ribbon’s nearly as red as Keith’s cheeks. 

His smile, though. It’s sweet, so soft it’s almost not there at all. Shiro swallows, daring to hope that, maybe, Keith understands what Shiro means— sees this for that step that it is. 

“Keith,” he says. 

And Keith looks up at him, regarding him for a long breath. Then, he holds the ribbon up to Shiro. “Will you put it on for me?” 

“Oh, I—” Shiro hesitates, eyes sweeping over the long, elegant braid disappearing behind Keith’s shoulder. “I don’t really know how to braid.” 

“I am not surprised,” Keith agrees. “_ You are bez la’vav._” 

Shiro puzzles over the words as they translate. “_Bez la’vav_?”

“Without,” Keith elaborates. He turns and sits at his chair and points at another chair across the room, gesturing for Shiro to fetch it and put it behind his. 

While Shiro turns to do just that, Keith continues, “Many Galra are naturally without hair— either short fur or no fur at all. They are _Ketsév._ Honorable. Independent. Strong.” 

Keith pauses, waiting for Shiro to grab the chair and carry it over. He watches Shiro over his shoulder as he settles, scooting the chair closer towards Keith. 

He thinks he sees the flash of Keith’s smile as he turns away again, tugging his braid over his shoulder. 

“Tell me more?” Shiro asks. 

He watches Keith pull his old ribbon free, watches his hair unspool like a river. Keith cards his fingers through his hair, working the braid loose and letting it unravel. Shiro lets himself appreciate it. It’s not the first time he’s seen Keith without his braid, but he usually only undoes it before going to bed. In the light of the mid-afternoon sun, Shiro just admires the luscious wave of his hair, dark as the night sky.

Shiro stares at the elegant curve of Keith’s exposed neck before he brushes his hair back over his shoulders. It falls like a curtain across his back. 

He wants to run his fingers through it. But he’s seen the way Keith’s reacted to Shiro touching his hair without warning. He knows to be patient. 

“_To purposefully shorten your hair is to be bez la’vav._ Without,” Keith clarifies. “_When a Galra does this, it means you do not have someone to groom you. You are alone. You are bez la’vav._” 

Keith goes quiet after that, his fingers tugging absently on a piece of his hair, something mournful in the way he holds his shoulders. 

Shiro stares at Keith’s hair again. Well-groomed, but self-groomed. Shiro isn’t sure if there’s significance in that. Maybe it’s like being touched, too. 

Swallowing, Shiro reaches out, touching a piece of Keith’s hair, starting behind his ear and sweeping down to the very tip of it. 

Keith shudders. Shiro thinks his breath comes a little bit quicker, too. 

“And… those with hair like yours?” Shiro murmurs, fingers curling at the little wavy ends of his hair. 

Keith is still as he takes a deep breath. Then, quietly, he continues, “_For those with hair and fur, we wear it a certain way_.” 

“The braids, right?” 

Shiro watches Keith study the ribbon in his hands. He can only see the briefest curve of Keith’s profile, but he can’t mistake that smile. 

“There are different ways,” Keith agrees. 

“And what does your way mean?” Shiro asks.

“That I am married,” Keith says, simply, his voice quiet. “_There are different styles for children, for first loss, for mourning, for celebration. For siblings and for friends. For marriage and for childbirth. For multiple partners. For no desire of partners. For values… freedom, victory, knowledge._” 

“So many,” Shiro marvels. 

“There are more,” Keith confesses. “But I don’t know how to explain.” 

“You’ll have to show them to me, when we return to Daibazaal,” Shiro says. 

Keith pauses and then turns fully in his seat to look at him. He looks so young, leaning against the back of the chair, his knees pressing against the slats as he tucks his legs beneath him. 

“I will show you, Shiro,” Keith vows. 

“And your bangs?” Shiro asks. When Keith gives him a perplexed look, Shiro reaches up and tugs on his own fringe, the fluff of white slipping through his fingers. “This?” 

Keith huffs and shakes his head. “It means nothing. I just like it.” 

It’s true he looks handsome like this— his hair tumbling past his shoulders, save for the smallest wisps that frame his cheeks and dust across his forehead. But, Shiro thinks, he’d find Keith handsome no matter what, most likely. 

“I like it, too,” Shiro says. “… I guess I’ve been insulting you this whole time because of my undercut.” 

Again, Keith gives him a confused blink. Shiro demonstrates, running his fingers back through his hair, scrubbing his fingertips along the buzzed line. Understanding dawns in Keith’s eyes. 

“You are human,” Keith says. “I was not insulted.” 

“Should I grow my hair out, though?” Shiro asks. “I’m not actually _bez la’vav._” He smiles, despite himself. “I have _you._” 

“If you wish.” Keith tilts his head, biting his lip. Shiro stares at his mouth, considering the bold move of simply leaning forward and catching Keith’s mouth with his. But he resists. “You…” Keith begins, considering. “_You wear your hair because you like it?_”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees. “I don’t know about other cultures on Earth, but at least for me… we don’t have anything significant about our hair.” Shiro scrubs his fingers through his buzzed sides again. “I just like how it feels.”

“Feels?” Keith asks. 

Shiro leans forward, tilting his head. “Try it.” 

Keith considers and then reaches out, dragging his fingers through the soft buzz of his undercut. Keith makes a soft sound, something that’s almost a trill— surprise plain on his face. 

“It is—” Keith cuts off, brow furrowing as he attempts to find the descriptor. “Spiky? Not soft.” 

Keith scoots his chair closer, staring at Shiro with a frown. His eyes sweep over Shiro’s hair and along the curve of his cheeks. 

“I thought…” Keith’s brow pinches, pausing as he collects the words. “I thought it would feel like me.” 

He gestures to his cheeks, to that soft velvet of his fur. Helplessly, Shiro reaches out— lets his fingers skirt the line of Keith’s jaw. The fur is gentle there, gliding over his fingertips. Smooth, so close to Keith’s skin that he barely feels it at all. Nothing like the buzzing feeling of Shiro’s undercut against fingertips. 

Keith blinks at him and then mimics him— drags his fingers over Shiro’s smooth jaw. 

“Guess human hair is different from Galran fur,” Shiro says, smiling when Keith’s fingers follow his jaw even as he speaks. Keith’s fingers stop and hold at the bottom of Shiro’s chin. They rest there. 

“Humans have lots of hair?” 

“Some humans are hairier,” Shiro explains. He huffs a breath. “Like the Galra. Some are furry, some only a little, and some are scaly. Humans are like that, too.”

“Humans have scales?” Keith teases. 

“Well,” Shiro hedges. “I guess not _scales._” Keith’s touch against his chin feel like a brand. He wants to catch Keith’s fingers and press his mouth against each one. “Most humans have hair on top of their heads, but elsewhere, too. See?” 

He rolls up the sleeve of his Galran-style tunic, exposing his forearm— and the soft layer of hair trailing up. He knows Keith’s seen it before, but now he gives him permission to just study him. And Keith does. 

Shiro regrets that Keith draws his fingers away from Shiro’s chin, but only so he can drag his fingertips through the soft down of hair on Shiro’s forearm and drag up. 

“This is softer.”

“Yeah.” 

“Where else do you have hair?” Keith asks.

“Um,” Shiro peeps, his face turning red. 

But Keith doesn’t seem to recognize his embarrassment, his eyes still on the hair on his arm. 

“Not the… under your feet?” Keith asks. 

“Do you?”

Keith nods. “I slip on the Altean tiles. No grip.” 

Shiro barks a laugh before he can hold it back, but thankfully Keith doesn’t look insulted. He looks up at Shiro, grinning, his eyes lighting up. 

“I’m sure you can handle yourself fine,” Shiro says. “I like your hair.”

Keith’s smile turns shy as he ducks his head. Shiro lets the moment hang like that, just appreciating the way some of his hair falls past his shoulders, framing his face. His ears twitch, flickering towards Shiro. 

“So… Are you going to let me braid your hair now?” Shiro teases. 

“Perhaps I will keep… fishing the compliments,” Keith jokes back and grins when Shiro huffs another laugh. 

“I’ll compliment you,” Shiro says with a wide smile. “If you want.” 

_You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful._ His mind screams for him to say it. Now would be the moment to do so. 

But he waits too long. Silence settles between them, comfortable and serene. Keith casts him one last slow, curving smile, and turns his back to Shiro, gesturing to his hair once again. 

“I will guide you,” Keith announces, brushing his fingers through his hair and holding it out to Shiro. “Two equal sections, woven.” 

“Ha, like mates,” Shiro breathes, getting it. He does as Keith instructs, separating Keith’s hair out into two sections, his hair silky in his grip. 

He thinks he hears a smile in Keith’s voice when he answers, “Yes.” 

Tentatively, Shiro combs his fingers through Keith’s hair. There are no tangles, the hair parting around his fingers easily, but it still feels nice. He hears the stilted little rasp of Keith’s purr— there and gone again— and focuses on getting his hair separated. 

With Keith’s guidance, Shiro pulls Keith’s hair into a Marmoran-style twisted braid, folding the sections together and letting it coil its way down Keith’s back. It’s uneven and chunky— not nearly as elegant or effortless when Keith does it. 

Shiro fumbles and loses his grip. He watches Keith’s hair swing forward and come undone, uncoiling. 

“Shit,” Shiro grunts. 

“It’s alright,” Keith assures him. “Try again. Go slow.” 

Keith sounds a little breathless, but Shiro does as he says— finger-combing Keith’s hair and then separating it into two parts again. He slowly weaves it together in the intricate twist Keith explains. He listens to the sound of Keith’s breathing. He drags in deep breaths, swelling his chest, and holds for a moment before letting it back out again— like he’s trying to calm himself. His ears are twisted back, pinned solely on Shiro. 

“Am I doing okay?” Shiro asks, wondering at Keith’s breathing.

“Yes,” Keith assures him. He sighs out, his shoulders sinking. “Shiro.” 

There’s something in the way Keith says his name. Shiro pauses, his fingers buried deep in Keith’s hair. But Keith says nothing more, his body still, his breathing even. 

“Keith,” Shiro murmurs, for lack of anything else to say, and hears Keith breathe out. 

Shiro ducks his head, focusing on the braid. With some effort, he manages to finish the elaborate twist and takes the ribbon when Keith offers it. He stares at his hand pinching the end of his braid in place and his hand holding the ribbon. 

“How do I—” 

Keith reaches behind him and holds his braid in place, letting Shiro use both his hands to tie the ribbon into a little bow at the base of his braid. 

Sitting back and observing the braid, it’s nothing like how Keith braids his own hair. Keith’s is even, precise, and collected. In Shiro’s bumbling hands, Keith’s braid is uneven down his back, some little flyaways of hair poking out. There are large pieces of Keith’s hair missing from the braid entirely, tucked behind his ears. 

Shiro sighs. “Maybe you should redo it. I suck at this.” 

“No,” Keith says, pulling the braid over his shoulder and observing Shiro’s work. He lets out a breath, something that almost sounds like a purr— but held back, resisted. 

“It’ll look better—”

“No,” Keith says, thumbing the ribbon, his smile serene, his eyes half-lidded and content. 

-

“What’s with Keith’s braid?” Hunk whispers to Shiro as Keith rises from their seats at dinner to fetch more food. 

“He asked me to do it,” Shiro admits, grimacing as he watches Keith walk away, his lopsided braid swaying along his back. His heart feels all twisted up in his chest— embarrassed, but delighted that Keith’s kept it like this all day. “I was really bad at it, but—” 

When he turns to look at Hunk, he’s staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Wow,” Hunk says. 

“What?” Shiro presses.

“Nothing bad,” Hunk says, eyes flickering quickly to Keith and back to Shiro. He looks confused, brow scrunching up. “I just thought… You keep telling me things aren’t going great with you two.”

“I never said that,” Shiro mutters.

Hunk doesn’t respond. He does have a point— Shiro did just have a blushing freak-out about Hunk’s assumption only a few days ago, after all. And certainly since then— well, Shiro’s willing to agree that things have been going well since then, if the number of times Keith’s scented him is any indication. 

Shiro runs a thumb over his wedding ring, his eyes finding Keith again across the room. 

“Why?” he asks Hunk. 

“Captain,” Hunk sighs. “Braiding another Galra’s hair is a _huge_ deal in their culture. Like… Huge.” 

“Really?” 

“When was the last time you saw anybody braiding anybody’s hair?” Hunk asks. 

“Well it’s not like I’m sitting in a bunch of Galran rooms watching what they get up to,” Shiro protests. “They’re tactile. I figured this was just— an extension of that.” 

“Sure, but look at the Boj and Pe’vok,” Hunk says, nodding towards the mated pair in their customary tail-holding. “They’re all touchy but Pe’vok never touches Boj’s hair in front of people.” 

That much is true. Boj has a long braid— the mated style, he now recognizes, the same as Keith’s. Pe’vok is _ Ketsév_; she’s bald. But all the same, he’s never seen Boj or Pe’vok touch her hair despite all the way they keep touching one another. 

Despite himself, Shiro starts blushing. “So…” 

“So it’s a big deal,” Hunk says. “Basically, parents groom their kits and then after that it’s like… ‘nobody but mates’ kind of thing.” 

“Got it,” Shiro says, feeling himself blush deeper, spreading up to his ears. He thinks of Keith’s smile, sitting in the window, letting Shiro finger-comb his hair. Keith had made those wispy, raspy sounds that might have been a purr— or, the Marmoran Rattle, Shiro corrects— but even without it, he’d looked so content. 

Shiro swallows a little, his heart kicking up in his chest. There’s still so much he doesn’t know, but this— this seems like a good sign. That he can let himself hope. That maybe it’s not just him feeling this way. 

Keith’s smiling still when he returns with a new plate of food. He places some sliced apples onto Shiro’s plate. 

“Oh!” Shiro breathes, surprised to see them and delighted by the gesture. He beams at Keith. “Thank you.” 

Keith nods and says, quietly, “You’re welcome.” 

-

Keith nuzzles at the back of his neck as he dreams, letting out a sleepy little purr and clinging to Shiro’s back. Shiro closes his eyes, trying to just focus on that feeling— letting it wash over him, letting it relax him.

But when he opens his eyes again, he turns his attention back towards the two pieces of string he’s tied at one end. He weaves the two strings together, practicing his braiding while Keith sleeps.

Just in case. 

-

Shiro listens to Keith’s purr cut off as he wakes again. He feels the little huff of Keith’s breath, the way he goes still. Shiro listens as Keith shifts, as he goes to pull away from him as he does every morning. He moves slow, as if afraid that he might wake Shiro from a tentative sleep. 

And maybe Shiro does feel sleepy. Maybe that’s why, before Keith can pull away completely, Shiro lifts his hand and catches Keith’s before it can slide away from his chest. 

Keith sucks in a sharp breath, surprised. “Shiro—?” 

Not answering, Shiro lifts Keith’s hand and licks his wrist, mimicking the way Keith always scents him. It feels as much a greeting as anything else. 

“Morning,” Shiro croaks. “Did you sleep well?” 

Keith’s gone still behind him, boneless as Shiro scents him. He feels Keith wriggle closer, his breath a little tattoo against Shiro’s shoulder. He can feel the burning of Keith’s eyes, watching Shiro as he works. 

“Yes,” Keith finally answers. 

Shiro sighs and releases Keith’s hand. He lets Keith sit up before he twists around and reaches for his second hand. 

Keith’s smile is indulgent, softening his eyes as he watches Shiro sprawl out on the bed, cupping the back of Keith’s hand and pressing his mouth against the delicate curve of his wrist. 

Shiro flicks his eyes up to look at Keith when he hears him laugh. “What?” he asks. “Am I still doing it wrong?” 

Keith shakes his head. “No. It’s…” 

He shifts his hand to catch Shiro’s, pressing them palm to palm again— Keith’s fingers sliding up against Shiro’s. Keith tilts his head, observing their hands.

“Your hand is very big,” Keith elaborates and laughs again, his cheeks flushing. 

“Yeah,” Shiro whispers, and folds his fingers down over Keith’s. Now that he has permission to touch, he wants to— especially if he knows it helps Keith. “Don’t tell me you only just noticed?”

He waits as Keith translate the phrase and watches his smile turn secretive. Keith turns away, climbing from bed and retreating to his dressing table.

“I did not,” Keith assures. 

Shiro blushes, takes a deep breath, and climbs from bed. He watches Keith at his dressing table out of the corner of his eye while he makes the bed. Once finished, he crosses to his clothing chest, digging through for his outfit for the day. 

After a long silence, Keith asks, “Shiro? What is Terran-style clothing like?” 

“Hm?” Shiro asks as he shrugs into one of the breezy Galran-style tunics he’s been favoring the last few days. His personal sense of style veers towards form-fitting, but he likes how loose the tunic fits, giving him more range of motion. With the deep vee, too, he never fears overheating. 

He turns towards Keith to find him studying him, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“You wear my clan’s clothes.” He stops Shiro from protesting, saying, “I know it is your gesture. I am grateful. But… what of your clothes?” 

“I still have some,” Shiro confesses as he straps his wedding blade to the small of his back. “Just haven’t been wearing them.”

“May I see?” 

Shiro shrugs and returns to the chest, kneeling and digging around. He knows Keith’s curious about Terran culture. The least he can do is show his casual wear. He holds up a pair of trousers— not dissimilar to the Marmoran style— and his favorite tee-shirt. Keith observes them with a critical eye and gives an assessing nod.

“If you wear Galran,” Keith says, “Should I wear Terran?” He looks to Shiro. “As my gesture.” 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Shiro says. “But I have some things that might fit you.” 

Keith stands from his chair and approaches him. He hovers, peering into the chest. “Please show me.” 

Shiro considers what would be likely to fit Keith best and digs around. He grabs his favorite old leather jacket— a little snug for him now, but sentimental. He’s traveled across the universe with it and it felt like a waste to give it away even once it started getting too tight in the shoulders. 

He holds it up for Keith to examine. The leather’s worn, smooth beneath his fingertips, the little brown trim accenting its design. It’s old-school, but that’s what Shiro likes about it.

Keith seems impressed by it and Shiro wonders if they have anything similar to leather on Daibazaal. He watches Keith run his fingers over it, studying the texture. 

“Try it on,” Shiro offers, gesturing the jacket up until Keith takes it. 

Instead of trying it on, though, Keith presses his face into the lapels and inhales deep. Shiro feels his cheeks turn pink. Keith stays still, face buried against Shiro’s favorite jacket. A moment later, Shiro hears the licks of Keith’s purr. 

“Uh, so, what’s the verdict?” he asks and immediately corrects, knowing Keith won’t get what he means, “What do you think?” 

“It smells like you,” Keith announces and then slips the jacket onto his body. 

It fits perfectly, sliding over his tunic easily, settling across his shoulders and cuffing at his wrists. Keith looks pleased, untucking his hair— still wild and unbraided— from inside it and examining himself in the vanity mirror. Shiro sits back on his heels, still knelt by his chest of clothes, just watching his husband preen, running his fingers over the sleeves of his jacket. 

“Wear it,” Shiro encourages him when Keith goes to slip it off again. “You look nice.” 

And he does. The jacket fits Keith nicely and will accent Keith’s red ribbon— if he wears it today. Keith’s ears perk up and he looks undeniably pleased. 

“I will,” Keith announces, smiling. He sits, fetching the red ribbon and looking to Shiro. Quietly, he asks, “Will you braid my hair?” 

And Shiro goes to him, pulling the second chair and settling behind his husband. He takes longer to comb through his hair— it’s untangled, as always, and there’s no reason he should need to brush his hair like this for so long, but he does. Keith doesn’t protest. 

Keith wears the jacket for the entire day, even at the height of the midday heat. He seems unbothered by it, or the large chunks of his hair that cling to his sweaty neck because Shiro still can’t braid properly. 

On the contrary, Keith seems perfectly content— lounging beneath an antovian tree with Shiro as Shiro rests and Keith draws. Occasionally, he buries his nose into the collar, pausing in his sketching just to breathe. 

-

The next morning, Keith doesn’t try to draw away when he wakes. Instead, he leans forward, looking to see if Shiro is awake. 

Their eyes lock and Keith hums, quietly, touching Shiro’s arm. “Come to the garden with me.” 

And so he leads Shiro out into the garden. It isn’t even dawn yet, the sun just starting to lick at the sky and lighten it. 

Shiro feels sleepy in the way only early morning can bring, and as the dawn breaks over the horizon, Shiro watches Keith shed his new leather jacket and crouch down expectantly, eyes on Shiro. 

They spar like that, the dew on the grass wetting the bottoms of their bare feet when they kick off their boots. Keith bows beneath Shiro’s outstretched arm as he takes initiative and dives in first. It’s a familiar dance and one Shiro’s starting to understand intimately— a duck and a flow, a press, a meeting, a parting. Expectation and reality meet here as they spar, blocking Keith’s punch with a swift hand, skidding away to recapture balance once Keith’s pushed off a kick. 

Keith’s panting by the end of their first round, both of them retreating as if following a set cycle— a push to meet, grappling, and withdrawing once more. Keith wipes his brow, his hair clinging to his face, and Shiro itches to fix his braid for him now that he knows the steps to it, now that he knows it a little better. 

It feels more like a dance than fighting. It’s steps that Shiro’s starting to know by heart through Keith’s sure feet and surer stance. He slides his leg out and catches Shiro in the backs of his knees, knocking him to the ground. But Shiro rolls away easily, crouching on his feet and launching himself at Keith. He catches him in the middle and knocks him down, too, using his body to pin him. 

Keith heaves a breath and arches beneath him, wraps his leg swiftly around his hip and shoves up. He turns Shiro easily, pushes him flat onto his back and legs on either side of his hips. This isn’t like sparring or like dancing, either, and for one moment Shiro’s breath hitches before he remembers himself and kicks Keith off. 

They roll through the grass, dew and sweat making their clothes cling to her skin. Keith’s hair’s knocked loose from his braid and Shiro’s bangs are plastered to his forehead. But it doesn’t matter. Keith pants, gulping down breath, and hands always reaching for Shiro. 

When Shiro is finally pinned, it’s with Keith arching over him, hair in his face, shoulders heaving as he breathes. His hands press hard against Shiro’s chest first and then grab at his hands, pinning them above his head. His knees press hard against Shiro’s thighs, locking them in place. 

Shiro’s breathless, too, his heart hammering in his chest and lungs burning for air. He doesn’t want to stop, though, but he’s exhausted all energy. He flexes his hands beneath Keith’s and Keith slots their fingers together until they tangle up, until Keith is gripping his hands tight in their familiar hand-hold. 

Keith’s eyes are a smoldering fire looking down at him, burning as bright as any nebula. Shiro licks his lips, desperate for air. 

“I yield,” he breathes and Keith looks triumphant, eyes twinkling like dual stars. 

“You last longer now,” Keith says and Shiro knows he’s being teased, knows it’s a gift to be given such lightly-spoken words with that wickedly smiling mouth. 

Shiro thinks, deliriously, that he wants to lean up and kiss Keith. He wonders if he’s always going to feel this when Keith pins him. 

Leave it to Shiro to start falling like this. He thought he’d gotten used to loneliness; he thought he wasn’t the type of person to be _longing_.

_Falling._ He wonders if the Galra have a similar idiom. It isn’t something he’s about to write down in his PADD to go over with Hunk, though. 

Leave it to him to start falling for someone who might not be falling back, though. Shiro isn’t blind— he knows that Keith likes him, at least as a friend. He can’t guess if the things Keith do have deeper meaning beyond friendly flirting or competitiveness. 

He could ask. He knows that much. 

Shiro squeezes Keith’s hands instead and notes the way Keith’s eyes flicker up, assessing the gesture. He mimics him, squeezing his hands tight in a steady pulse. 

He knows he’s missed the window to say something back to Keith, to take the teasing volley and return it. His mouth feels dry as he licks his lips, as he swallows and hears the click in his throat. 

Quietly, finally, he answers, “Guess you make me work for it, huh?” 

Keith’s eyes feel brighter and hotter than the morning sun pushing through the leaves, casting shadows across the sealgrass. 

When Keith smiles, it’s secretive. “That is its purpose, husband.” 

Shiro releases one of Keith’s hands and lifts, tucking a long strand of Keith’s hair behind his ear just to see what he’ll do, just to watch the mesmerizing way Keith’s pupils dilate. Shiro runs his fingers down through Keith’s hair and it passes as clean and smooth as water, his fingertips falling away too soon. 

He hates how long it’s taken him to realize how good it feels to touch Keith— to know that he’s helping Keith in turn. 

Keith looks delighted by the touch, his eyes softening. He dips closer, so close that a long strand of his hair, freed from its braid, slips over his shoulder and brushes Shiro’s chest. 

Shiro considers catching it and bringing it to his lips. If hair is a big deal to the Galra, he can only guess what that gesture would mean. Maybe it would broadcast everything Shiro’s feeling squirming and coiling up inside him.

Shiro’s not sure if he’d be any better at this even if they did speak the same language. 

Shiro looks up at Keith leaning over him and thinks, _I could stay like this forever._

The truth of the thought shocks him, mouth parting as he stares up at Keith. And, as always, Keith stares back— their eyes locked. 

Shiro wishes he had the words to put voice to everything he needs to say. He wishes he could guarantee that Keith would understand.

And maybe he would. Maybe, as Keith stares down at him, softened by the golden glow of the Altean sun, he’d understand Shiro perfectly— if Shiro were to let himself be understood in this.

-

Shiro’s PADD chirps with an incoming message as he and Keith pack up the Altean flyer to travel to their familiar spot by the zyo-crystal stream. 

When Shiro checks it, there’s a notification from Allura. It makes Shiro smile. The princess has been away from Altea for some time but is scheduled to return during this movement. 

It seems she’s finally out of the communication deadzone that prevented her from talking with Shiro more often. 

Her message is simple, but straight-forward, as things always are with her: _No, Altea has no hoverbikes, Shiro._

It’s an answer to a message Shiro sent quintants ago. The reminder of it makes Shiro smile, thinking again of Keith on a hoverbike, skidding through a sharp curve, his braid whipping behind him as he crows his laughter. Shiro can’t wait to see that someday. 

Strange to think of a future, really. A future with Keith in it, by his side. 

He looks up to find Keith studying him, head tilted and ears quirked forward. 

“Message from a friend,” Shiro explains, pocketing the PADD. “Ready to go?” 

Keith nods and climbs into the flyer. He sits in the co-pilot’s seat and lets Shiro fly them to the streamside. It’s a flight they’re familiar enough with now— Keith hardly needs to pull his sketchbook out anymore to show Shiro the drawing of people by a river. It feels like their own little tradition, always ready to go there together. 

Shiro takes a sharp corner around a bank of trees just to see if Keith will laugh, but there’s tension in Keith’s shoulders today. He cracks a smile, but otherwise sits with his hands fidgeting in his lap. 

Shiro wants to ask— but also knows to be patient. Keith will tell him when he’s ready, he thinks— he _hopes. _

Shiro lands the flyer at the edge of their familiar meadow of sealgrass. Shiro hops down first and turns towards Keith. Without thinking about it, Shiro holds his palm up towards Keith. Keith blinks at it, his hand already reaching out to take Shiro’s hand before he seems to realize he’s doing so, too. 

Shiro smiles at him and helps him jump down. He doesn’t let go of Keith’s hand even as Keith settles on his feet. Shiro swallows, summons up some boldness, and tangles their fingers together. 

Something eases in Keith’s expression and, together, they walk towards the water hand-in-hand. Keith’s hand is a gentle press against his, warm and welcomed. 

They settle at their favorite spot, overlooking the water but far enough away that Keith doesn’t get anxious about it. When he glances at Keith, Keith’s eyes are pointed down towards their hands, studying the way their fingers interlock. 

“Keith,” Shiro prompts, gently, and watches Keith turn to look at him— ears turning first, then face following. 

Shiro’s familiar with the long stares Keith gives him, their eyes locking without any hesitation. 

“I have something for you,” Keith finally says. He looks down, hair spilling to hide his face. “I hope you will like it.” 

“What is it?” Shiro asks, surprised. 

Shiro watches Keith untangle their fingers, freeing his hand and digging into the inner pocket of the jacket Shiro gave him. He pulls out a palm-sized book, bound in the Galran-style— spine on top, to be flipped open and read lengthwise. 

“This,” Keith says and thrusts it out. “This is for you.” He looks away, his cheeks a deep red-purple. “To thank you for the ribbon.” 

Shiro takes the book, surprised, and flips it open. He studies it. The words are simple and in a large script. A children’s book, it seems: brief descriptions accompanying illustrations of stars. 

A children’s book of constellations. 

Perplexed, Shiro looks up at Keith. 

Keith fidgets, ears flicking back. “You… mentioned wishing to know Daibazaal’s stars,” he says. “It has origins and myths. I know it’s in Galran, but… the words are simpler. So you can practice.” 

He looks vaguely worried for a moment, ears pressing back further as he looks up at Shiro, like he thinks Shiro’s going to be insulted by the gift. 

“I thought—” Keith begins, helplessly. “_I thought it was a good idea, but I’m— I’m not sure—_” 

Keith flounders more and Shiro realizes the source of his anxiety— that in giving Shiro a children’s book, Shiro will feel insulted. 

But Shiro feels anything but. He can’t help his little laugh, his smile tentative. 

“Keith,” he says, gently, so Keith will stop stumbling over his words. Then, flipping to the first page, he reads, “_Ku’cull is the… bacut_?” 

He looks up at Keith who says, quietly, “_Bacut._ It’s a creature on Daibazaal… It lives in burrows.” 

Shiro nods and finishes the sentence, “_Ku’cull is the bacut of the sky. It follows the path to Meigax._” 

He looks up at Keith again who explains, “Meigax is our sun.” 

Shiro nods, smiling as he traces his fingers over the words. “Keith,” he murmurs, “Thank you. This is… generous.” 

Keith remembered he wanted to know about the stars. And he’s given him a gift to help him do just that. Shiro feels like a cup overflowing, warm all over. 

“You like it?” 

“Yes.”

Keith breathes out and smiles, ears flicking forward once more. “I’m glad,” Keith says. “I wanted— I wanted for your happiness.” He clears his throat, eyes dipping down to study his lap, hands clasping and unclasping. “_You are difficult to read, Shiro._” 

“Me?” 

Keith nods. “Sometimes. But I wanted… to make you happy.”

Shiro shuts the book carefully and makes sure it’s secure in the inner pocket of his tunic before he holds his hands out, palm-up. He offers them to Keith and breathes out as Keith slides their palms together, just pressing there. 

He watches Keith’s shoulders slump, too. They’re quiet for a moment, the only sound those of the world around them— turkbirds in the trees, the zyo-crystal water babbling behind them. The sealgrass bows in the breeze. 

“I didn’t know I’m hard for you to read.” 

Keith shakes his head. “You have no under-voice. And your ears don’t move. Of course you are difficult to read.”

It hadn’t occurred to Shiro that in all this time he’s been using Keith’s ears as a way to tell his moods, Keith might have been wishing for the same thing— and unable to glean anything from Shiro’s ears.

Keith moves his hands then, pushing Shiro’s up so they can press palm-to-palm and then, as always, Keith tangles their fingers together. They hold hands like that, held up between them. 

“They are large though,” Keith says, quietly, “for a human.” 

Shiro’s mouth opens in surprise as Keith glances up at him and then laughs. It’s a cute sound— not a true guffaw, but perhaps a little nervous. Shiro’s being teased again and affection floods through him as he watches Keith’s helpless little smile. 

“Do you like them?” Shiro asks. “My ears?” 

Keith glances down and peeks up at him through his hair, smile gentle.

“Yes,” he says, like it’s simple. Shiro almost envies his ability to be so blunt. 

Of course Shiro would be falling for Keith. Keith’s done so much for him already, more than he ever needed to— his laugh alone is a gift. His kindness. His protectiveness. He’s done so much for Shiro already, born from a desire to look after him, never pity or condescension. 

Shiro knows he’s done nothing in turn to make Keith care for him beyond friendship. It’s an ache in his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says. “I’m sorry I’m hard to understand.” 

Keith shakes his head. “I know some Human gestures… from my father. But Dad was not all of humanity.” He shrugs, a gesture Shiro can’t help but find profoundly Human. “I know I am not always— I’m not always…” 

He trails off, not specifying, and Shiro can’t fathom what he isn’t saying. Or what he’s thinking of himself. 

Wordlessly, compelled to comfort him, Shiro squeezes Keith’s hands. He waits until Keith looks up at him before saying, “Whatever you are or aren’t, I’m glad we’re friends, Keith.” 

Keith blinks and then his expression softens, something tentative and hopeful in his eyes as he looks at Shiro. “Yes,” he says. “Me too, Shiro.” 

Keith hesitates and then scoots a little closer. Shiro finds himself drifting closer, too, his hands lifting to touch Keith’s shoulders. He’s not sure who initiates it first, only knows the feeling of Keith sinking into his arms, palms pressing to Shiro’s back. 

They hug, holding one another carefully. After a moment, Shiro starts rubbing Keith’s back and, beneath his palms, he feels the rumble of Keith’s purr. It rumbles up Keith’s throat and feels like it’s vibrating through Shiro’s entire body, too. He’s buoyed like this, protected and held in Keith’s arms. 

He’s never felt so comfortable. 

Shiro feels Keith turn his head, tentatively, nose pressing against his neck. Shiro closes his eyes as he feels Keith’s nose drag up his neck and press into the spot just below his jaw. Shiro sighs out, feeling a tingle of warmth run down his spine as Keith starts nuzzling, tentatively, at his throat. 

“Keith,” he whispers. 

Keith pauses, as if seeking something in Shiro’s tone. Shiro turns his face, pressing into Keith’s hair, mouth dangerously close to a tweaked ear. 

And against Shiro’s skin, Keith breathes out a sigh and, tentatively, licks at his neck, scenting him there. Shiro keeps his eyes closed, just letting himself feel it. He thinks it has to be some sort of placebo effect— it’s a purely Galran gesture, something born from a need to reassure, to be close. There’s no reason that Shiro should feel himself relaxing, going boneless in Keith’s arms, as if pulled by some natural force. But he does. 

He nuzzles into Keith’s hair, his breath ghosting against the curve of Keith’s ear. Keith makes a soft sound, a low murmur that almost tapers off into the purr and nuzzles more at Shiro’s neck. Keith starts in one spot at Shiro’s neck and moves, lips trailing across his skin until he settles into the spot on the other side of his neck. 

It feels like it goes on forever, takes far longer than with his wrists. Not that Shiro minds. He slumps against Keith. And, as always, Keith holds him easily— nuzzling and licking at his neck. 

But, eventually, it has to end. He feels Keith pause, his mouth a pressing smile against his throat. And, finally, they draw away from one another. 

Shiro thinks whatever he’s feeling might be reflected back in Keith’s eyes. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Or maybe it’s the way Keith studies Shiro’s face, something so soft and so hopeful in his eyes. 

Shiro doesn’t think he can be mistaken on that. He hopes, at least. 

_Fall for me, too,_ Shiro thinks. Hopes. 

He tips forward, pressing his forehead to Keith’s. He watches Keith close his eyes as Shiro closes his. They hold like that, just feeling each other’s breaths.

It’s enough. 

-

That night, as they settle in for bed, Shiro looks at Keith across that space between them. It once felt so expansive, too far away to ever bridge that gap. 

But Keith’s looking back at him, his eyes not quite glowing luminous in the dark. Shiro knows they’re fixed on him. 

Shiro lets hope kindle in his chest, little embers starting to flame up. He takes a deep breath, watching Keith carefully, and whispers, “When you… seek your mate. Um, does it always have to be spooning?” 

“Spooning?” Keith asks. 

Shiro gestures, holding up two hands and slotting them together, like two spoons pressed together. Understanding dawns in Keith’s eyes and he turns his face, pressing it into the pillow. Embarrassed. 

He shakes his head, though. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, goading, and waits for Keith to glance up at him again, just one eye peeking up from the pillow. 

Shiro takes a deep breath and opens his arms to Keith— a silent invitation. 

Keith stares at him, unblinking, for so long that Shiro fears he won’t come to him. But Shiro watches Keith suck in a deep breath and, silently, move towards him. His smile is a tentative thing that only grows once Shiro can reach him, his arms curling around him and cuddling him in close.

Keith goes willingly, slotting into place beside him. Their legs tangle together and Keith’s hand touches Shiro’s chest, his face burying against his shoulder. 

“Will you sleep?” Keith murmurs into his shoulder. His ear twitches, the tip of it brushing against Shiro’s chin. 

“I’ll try,” Shiro says. He feels tired enough for at least a two-hour block of sleep. “I might… I might get a nightmare,” Shiro tells him. “Sorry if I wake you up.” 

“We will play the game if so,” Keith assures him, like it’s simple. He cuddles in closer, nosing at Shiro’s chest and letting out a sleepy, pleased sigh. 

“Okay.” Shiro buries his face against Keith’s hair, his arms tight around him as he tethers him close. 

Shiro falls asleep to the sound of Keith’s purring. And no nightmares wake him. 

-

He wakes in starts and fits, as always, but when he wakes up fully, he’d dare to say he’s almost fully rested. He blinks his eyes open and finds Keith already awake before him, peering up at him, his chin on Shiro’s chest. They’ve moved in the night— Shiro on his back and Keith draped over him. 

“Hi,” Shiro greets. 

“Good morning,” Keith answers. His eyes are so gentle in the morning light, his hair a wave around him. 

Beautiful, as always. 

They climb from bed together and Shiro pulls his chair behind Keith’s as Keith settles at the dressing table. He combs Keith’s hair gently, weaving it into a braid once he’s finished. He’s surer now, although the braid is still lopsided and not nearly as precise as when Keith does it. It still takes him too long to finish, but Keith doesn’t seem to mind, his eyes shut and a purr rumbling in his chest. 

And Shiro thinks— it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay in time.

-

Shiro still feels a little floaty as he makes his way down to the hangar to greet Allura on her return. He’s slept well and he’s buoyed with the thought that, yes, Keith must like him, too. 

He’s working on strategies to broach that topic with his husband as Allura descends the ramp leading off her ship. She smiles when she spots Shiro and heads towards him. 

He’s known Allura for a couple decaphoebs now. Theirs has always been a simple enough friendship— not close, but not distant, either. He thinks that, as a princess, Allura would likely understand that distance from people more than some. Perhaps that’s something she and Keith could bond over, someday. 

Keith deserves to have more friends, after all. Allura, too.

Shiro sweeps into the standard Altean bow, only because he knows it’ll make Allura laugh. She does, light and airy. He can just imagine her rolling her eyes as he straightens up again. 

“It’s good to see you, Shiro,” Allura greets. 

“Yeah,” Shiro says, his smile lopsided. “You missed my wedding and everything.” 

“Aqeollk is very far away,” Allura says, diplomatically. “I’m sorry to have missed it.” 

“I know,” Shiro says, quick to pull back from teasing. He wants to say something reassuring— like how it wasn’t a big deal, personally speaking, or that it wasn’t romantic. But now, in hindsight, all Shiro can think about is Keith staring into his eyes during their vows, or the moment afterwards in their quarters, when Shiro slipped the ring onto Keith’s finger. 

He knows he must look slightly moony when he glances down at his ring now, twisting it around on his finger. He’s worn it long enough now that he’s nearly forgotten it’s there— a familiar, pleasant weight. It glows a faint purple, attuned to Keith’s life force. 

“I’m surprised,” Allura murmurs. 

When Shiro looks up at her, he expects some sort of joke about how he looks now— Allura playfully scolding him for having a crush. He wonders if it’s obvious, if it shows on his face. He wonders if Keith knows, too. He has to, right? 

“Surprised?” Shiro prompts when Allura doesn’t elaborate. 

“You are not fully mated,” Allura says, voice dropping to a low murmur as she glances around. “Your wedding is so important to the alliance… I am surprised both parties haven’t noted it.” 

Shiro stares at her. For a wild moment, he wonders if the Alteans can _tell_ when other species have sex, somehow. There’s no other explanation for the concept of _fully mated._ It’s true that Keith and Shiro haven’t _consummated_ their bond in the traditional sense, but nobody’s mentioned it. 

Then again, Shiro can’t imagine Iverson bringing that up to him. 

“Uh,” Shiro says, blushing. “What?” 

He and Allura are friends. He values her beyond words. But they very rarely discuss romantic pursuits. He isn’t sure if he’s prepared to discuss his sex life with an alien princess. 

Allura frowns, folding her hands together in front of her. “You have no mating mark.” 

“No what?” Shiro asks, stupidly. 

“The mark of a marriage among the Galra,” Allura explains. “Prince Yorak should have marked you in a formal display. You’d have a scar.”

Something like unease coils in Shiro’s gut. Keith scents him now— nearly modest with it, of course, pressing tentative licks to Shiro’s neck and wrists. But he’s never tried to bite him. 

“I—” Shiro stops, unsure how to respond to that. His brain is entirely empty. “Our… our wedding night was unconventional. It was our first meeting.” 

“Certainly,” Allura agrees. Her brow crinkles in corner as she regards Shiro. “But it’s been some time now. Certainly, by now, he’d have done so. It would cause a Galra great distress otherwise, I’d imagine.” 

A pit opens in Shiro’s stomach. Anxiety creeps in, coiling and twisting and seizing around him. He can explain it away, logically, he knows. There’s a logical explanation. 

But Allura’s right. If it’s a matter of an alliance, a matter of personal comfort, Keith should have marked him by now. He’s never even heard whisper of that— Keith’s never even hinted at it, as far as he can recall. 

“Why… wouldn’t he mark me?” Shiro asks. 

Allura’s expression shutters into a diplomatic shield. “I suppose,” she says, gently, “that would be something to ask him yourself, as his husband.” 

“Right,” Shiro mutters, woodenly. He can’t help but needle at it, though: “But why would a Galra not mark their mate? In general.” 

Allura hesitates. That alone is enough to motivate Shiro to not let it go. 

“Allura,” he murmurs. “Please.” 

She breathes out a deep sigh, still looking uncertain. “Displeasure, I suppose,” she says. “A mate isn’t truly chosen until they’re marked— so a Galra not marking their mate could mean many things. That they haven’t fulfilled courtship requirements. That they are an unworthy mate. That a Galra does not plan to mate at all.” 

Shiro must make a sound. It curls up his throat, unable to be called back. Allura looks alarmed for half a moment before she presses her hand, gentle, against Shiro’s arm.

All Shiro can think is that it’s nothing like the way Keith touches him. How strange that Keith could have become such an exception so quickly. 

“I’m sure it’s not that,” she’s quick to say, although there’s no possible way Allura could even know. She doesn’t even know Keith. “Forgive me,” she says, the diplomatic mask falling away— only his friend now. “I hadn’t meant to cause _you_ distress.”

“I know,” Shiro assures her, squeezing her hand once before letting go. And he does know; Allura can be vicious when the need arises, but she’s only ever been kind to Shiro. Her concern here is genuine. 

A small, petty part of him wishes Keith had whisked him away for the afternoon— he could be by the water with Keith now, skipping stones, instead of standing here with Allura, suddenly entirely unsure of his position with his husband. 

He knows he’ll need to ask him. He knows he’ll need to be honest. 

He’s frustrated, though. For every step he thinks he takes, there’s something new he never knew to consider. He has no idea what else Keith hasn’t told him. What else Shiro might have been doing wrong. 

_An unworthy mate._

Shiro can’t imagine that can be the reason. But as soon as he thinks it, it wheedles into his mind and sticks there like a burr. 

After all, Shiro’s known that— there’s no question as to why Shiro would come to care for Keith. But it isn’t as if Shiro’s done anything worthy of Keith’s affection in turn. 

“Shiro—” Allura begins.

But Shiro smiles, and it’s easy. He shakes his head and laughs, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s okay, Allura. I’ll sort it out. The sake of the alliance, right?”

He watches the tension ease from Allura’s shoulders as Shiro offers his arm to her. She loops her arm through it, and he escorts her into the interior of the High Council. His smile must be convincing enough— she talks about her visit to Aqeollk, about the troublesomely annoying human pilot she had to work with (she, once more, remarks on the strangeness of human ears), and other inconsequential things. It’s good to talk with her, and Shiro’s glad that she isn’t worrying about him now. 

They enjoy some juniberry tea together, sitting across from one another at a little table in one of her many, expansive rooms. And it’s easy. It’s simple. This is the type of friendship Shiro’s used to. 

Allura doesn’t stare deep into his eyes. Allura doesn’t reach out to take his hands. Allura doesn’t purr with pleasure over one of Shiro’s jokes. It’s a different kind of friendship entirely. 

Shiro smiles and drinks his tea.

_An unworthy mate._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it to the end, fam. I'm so overwhelmed, delighted, and humbled by the response this fic has gotten; thank you so much for reading this and for all the kind comments over the last few weeks. I'm both so excited and so sad to give you the last chapter, and I hope it's a satisfying ending for you. 
> 
> Feel free to hit me up for any questions re: Keith's actions if you have any lingering wonderings! I'm always happy to talk the Galra culture in this fic. 
> 
> Some thanks:  
\- [Kika](https://twitter.com/B1ackPa1adins), [Sam](https://twitter.com/lasersheith/), and [Gen](https://twitter.com/Cold_Flame96/) for reading over some or all chapters!  
\- [Janel](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813) again for helping with some plot details  
\- [Amanda](https://twitter.com/SundaySEternal) for this prompt in the first place 
> 
> Let's earn that E-rating!! Please note the new tags before proceeding!

“Shiro,” Keith says, quietly, and Shiro snaps awake with Keith’s hand on his cheek. 

They’re in their bed and if Shiro had to guess by the drag of shadows on their ceiling, it’s deep into the night. Shiro’s sweating, his heart pounding, and mouth open in a silent shout. 

“You were dreaming,” Keith murmurs, voice impossibly gentle and soothing. Shiro can barely make him out in the dark, his eyes struggling to adjust. He blinks a few times, clearing the sleep from his vision. 

“Oh,” Shiro murmurs, gulping down air. He doesn’t apologize, knowing Keith will dismiss it. “Did I wake you up?” 

When Shiro’s eyes finally adjust, he focuses on Keith. His husband peers down at him, hair framing his face. His eyes are searching, studying Shiro. He doesn’t move his hand from Shiro’s face, thumb pressing to the flushed line of his cheek.

“It is no matter,” Keith answers. 

Shiro goes quiet, just looking up at Keith. His conversation with Allura still sits heavy in the back of his mind. He _knows_ he’ll have to ask Keith about it. He can’t just sit on this, leaving it silent. He knows being silent won’t do him any good. But every time he tries to summon the words, they don’t come. 

There’s something too vulnerable in asking it. _Am I worthy of you? Do you think I’m worthy of you?_

Keith isn’t drawing his hand away. Shiro hesitates before lifting his and covering Keith’s, keeping it pressed against his cheek. Something softens in Keith’s eyes, Shiro thinks. There’s always some comfort in how intensely Keith looks at him, in these moments or any moment. Shiro tries to focus on that, letting the dragging claws of his nightmare drift away from him and fade away entirely. 

“Keith?” 

“Yes?” Keith asks, his thumb swiping absently along the curve of Shiro’s cheek. It’s entirely too distracting. 

Shiro hesitates and it must show on his face. Keith makes a soft sound, his brow pinching in concern as he looks down at him. His hand is still gentle against his cheek, but his thumb stills. Waiting. 

Shiro lets out a low breath. “What do the Galra…” 

The words fade from him. Keith makes another sound, prompting, curious. But Shiro can’t find the words. His heart’s kicked up in his chest, flooding his system with adrenaline— fight, flight, freeze. He’s not sure what he’s going to do. 

Shiro’s hand slips off Keith’s and cups his wrist instead. He closes his eyes, willing himself to calm, and turns his head to nose at Keith’s wrist instead. 

“What of the Galra?” Keith asks, quietly, his voice going thready as Shiro swipes his tongue along the base of his palm. 

“I’m not sure how to ask this,” Shiro admits. 

Keith considers with a low hum, his eyes going half-lidded as he watches Shiro nuzzle into his palm. 

“When the words arrive,” Keith says, quietly, “I will listen, Shiro.” 

Shiro smiles and plants his lips against Keith’s palm, something that’s almost a kiss. “Thank you, Keith.” He hesitates and then looks up with Keith. “Want to play that game?” 

Keith touches his cheek one last time, fleeting, his fingers dragging along the line of his jaw. And then he withdraws with a nod, turning to fetch the metal disks. 

Even once dawn comes, Shiro still can’t manage to ask the question. 

-

The days pass in such a manner. Shiro knows he’s not doing well to disguise his distress, can see it in the way Keith always looks at him. The way he lingers by Shiro’s side, fueled on by that protectiveness, even if he doesn’t know the source. 

When they receive word that negotiations are wrapping up— that they’ll be expected to return to Daibazaal within the next movement— Shiro isn’t sure how he feels. Everything regarding their alliance has led to this moment, but Shiro still feels so uncentered. This was, after all, the point. He should feel more relieved than he does. 

“If you wish to stay,” Allura says at breakfast, seated between Shiro and Hunk, “You are of course more than welcome to do so.” 

Shiro smiles at her politely, unwilling to acknowledge the anxiety swirling inside him. He’s been excited to see Daibazaal— has been studying the constellation book Keith gifted him, excited to see the night sky and find those stars with his own eyes— but things feel unfinished. It isn’t Altea he fears leaving behind, but the peace he’s found with Keith. 

It doesn’t feel time. Things aren’t over yet. 

He turns to Keith. “I’m sure you’re eager to return to your clan, though.” 

Keith eyes him. He nods, something like concern pinching his expression. “Yes.” 

The matter moves on from there. 

But after breakfast, Keith follows Shiro and waits until they’re alone before, quietly, he says, “Shiro.” 

Shiro pauses, turning to look at Keith fully. Keith fidgets, then pulls his sketchbook out to show him the drawing he’d made so many movements ago— two people at a riverside. At this point, Shiro knows that Keith knows how to ask it in Terran, and Shiro can understand it well enough in Galran, but there’s something sweet in seeing the two figures— the two of them, sketched by Keith’s own hand. Clearly Keith thinks so, too, if this is the way he still asks him. 

“Okay,” he says and lets Keith guide him there. 

Keith is quiet on the flight over to their spot. And, really, Shiro considers it _their_ spot. Shiro knows he’s making Keith worry, hates that he’s doing so. He should just _say_ it and let it be out in the open, but it feels too much like confirmation, too much like acknowledging what he’s failed to do for Keith. 

Not that there’s any other solution beyond talking to Keith about it. He can’t sit on this forever. And certainly he’s not about to be so self-sacrificial as to free Keith from their marriage. Even if that were something he wanted to do, he can’t even imagine what the political fallout would be. 

Keith’s grip on the Altean flyer’s controls are tight, the tendons on his wrist strummed out. 

Once they land, Keith is silent as he descends from the flyer, Shiro jumping down after him, and strides towards the open patch of sealgrass. He strips off Shiro’s old leather jacket and lays it, reverently, on the grass. He toes off his boots next, sets down his marriage blade, and then turns to face Shiro. 

Shiro’s used to the action— it’s what Keith does whenever he’s ready to spar. Shiro pulls off his over-vest, the gauzy fabric caught in the breeze as he sets it, his shirt, and his boots down beside Keith’s discarded clothing. He sets his wedding blade down beside Keith’s. The two daggers hum with the quintessence once they’re close to one another, pulsing a deep purple. 

There’s comfort in sparring with Keith. It’s nothing like the fighting he’s been made to do. This is a choice, that familiar ebb and flow he knows so well. Sparring with Keith is a comfort, sometimes playful and sometimes sweet. Keith moves around him like he’s made of fire, all-consuming and expansive. And maybe every clash of Shiro meeting him is just fuel for that fire, an exchange of breath and oxygen. 

By the end of it, Keith pins him down, as always, their hands clasped together. Keith shoves them up over Shiro’s head, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. They stay like that, pressed chest to chest, gulping down air. 

Keith is a sinuous line above Shiro, panting, his forehead damp with sweat and his eyes so unbearably dark as he stares down at Shiro. 

It’s comforting, to look up at the sky above him and see Keith instead, his tangle of hair and quirked ears, his parted lips and depthless eyes. All of him. Keith is a cosmic sky all his own, beautiful and not nearly as out of reach as Shiro wants to believe. 

He’s just Keith. And he’s just Shiro. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, unsure what he’s asking for in the exhale of his name. 

Keith tilts his head at Shiro’s tone, waiting for Shiro to speak. 

Somehow, it’s easier like this— away from the Altean city, away from everyone else. Just the two of them, in a place that’s their own. Somehow, it’s easier to look up at Keith like this, bathed in sunlight, and not feel so afraid. 

Shiro looks up at Keith, licking his lips, and decides to simply ask: “What makes a good mate?” 

Keith pauses, fingers going slack between his for a moment. He tilts his head, his braid slipping over his shoulder and coiling down onto Shiro’s chest. 

“What do you mean?” Keith asks, quietly. There’s nothing cautious in his gaze, no matter how soft his voice. Something like expectation, perhaps, or waiting. Maybe, in the end, Keith’s only been waiting. 

Shiro licks his lips again, watching Keith’s eyes drop down to stare at the movement, pupils blowing wide. “What… what do _you_ look for in a mate, Keith?” 

Keith sucks in a sharp breath, frowning. His eyes search Shiro’s, studying him so deeply and intensely that Shiro feels utterly exposed. But that’s hardly for the first time, either. 

The words are on the tip of Shiro’s tongue. _You haven’t marked me as yours yet. Why not?_ But he can’t manage it out. He can’t find those words yet. Just one step. 

Keith’s hands pull back from Shiro and it takes all of Shiro’s strength not to reach for him, to just yank Keith down against him and keep him here forever. The strength of the desire bowls through Shiro, leaving him breathless. 

Keith touches Shiro, fingertips splaying over his bare chest. His thumb traces the slope of one scar, absently. It sends a shiver rippling down Shiro’s spine. 

“The Galra mate for life,” Keith tells him. “It’s important to choose _v’veivak._” 

Shiro shakes his head, the word not translating. Keith’s hand is so gentle on Shiro’s chest, touching just above his pounding heart. Surely Keith can feel it. 

He tips his chin down, glancing, and watches Keith touch his fingertips across a scar, just the barest ghost of a connection. 

“The…” Keith’s brow furrows as he struggles to translate something that’s untranslatable. “The accompanying. Someone who will…”

Keith pulls back just enough to lift his hands, folding his fingers together, interlacing them into a seal. 

“Someone who will complete,” Keith says. “_V’veivak._” Shiro opens his mouth to respond but Keith soldiers on, brow furrowed. “An equal. Your choice.” 

He takes up Shiro’s hands and guides them together, until Shiro threads his own fingers into a tight clasp, too. Keith covers his hands over his, holding gently. 

“That’s all?” Shiro asks. His heart is a lead weight in his chest, sinking further and further down. “The Galra mate for life so you have to choose carefully?” 

But Keith didn’t get to choose. 

Keith nods, thoughtfully. “For me, I…” Keith pauses, glancing up at Shiro and then letting his gaze flicker away, cheeks flushing. “I wish for someone good.” 

“Good?” 

“Strong,” Keith considers. “Kind. An explorer. Who listens. Who understands.” His fingers trace over Shiro’s knuckles and Shiro feels himself flushing as the words wash over him. “Someone who…” He pauses, voice going so quiet and so shy. “Wished the same. _V’veivak._” 

“I understand,” Shiro says, hushed— or at least, understands enough even as the final word remains untranslatable. He blushes deeper, looking up at Keith. He wants someone who can complete him. 

Tentative, slowly, like a flower unfurling, Keith smiles down at him. He’s so beautiful. 

Shiro lifts his hand, cupping Keith’s cheek. Keith lets loose the softest little trill and leans into the touch, his eyes falling shut. It plucks a smile from the corner of Shiro’s mouth. He looks resplendent like that, his hair a soft halo around him, his smile so sweet. 

“I know you didn’t choose me, Keith,” Shiro says. “But I hope I— I hope someday I can be a good mate to you, anyway.” 

His heart pounds away in his chest and he’s vividly aware of how sprawled out he feels. How, despite it all, Keith hasn’t marked him. 

At Shiro’s words, though, Keith’s eyes snap open. He looks at him, disbelief plainly written on his face. 

And then, washing over him quickly— visible anger. Keith’s mouth twists in a frown, his eyebrows pinching together and his ears flicking back to pin against his skull. Shiro can’t recall ever seeing Keith look at him like this. 

“_Shiro,_” he says, sharply. 

Shiro blinks up at him in surprise. “Keith—” 

Keith growls. He rips himself away from Shiro, standing up. He walks away, so swift and certain that Shiro’s sitting up, his heart lurched in his throat, wanting to call after him. But Keith doesn’t go far, moving through the sealgrass and dropping down beside Shiro’s jacket. He digs through it and returns with his sketchbook. 

Shiro puzzles at that, torn between confusion and heartbreak at Keith’s reaction. His eyes are burning, fierce and angry as he flips through each page of his book. Shiro waits to see what Keith draws, to help him find the words for his anger. 

But instead, Keith grunts, picks a page, and shoves the book at Shiro. 

It’s not a blank page at all. It’s a page full of sketches— and they’re all of Shiro. 

Shiro stares down at the page, uncomprehending. It’s different scenes of him— sitting, lounging, sleeping, skipping stones. There’s one of him resting his cheek in his hand, looking sleepy. There’s another of him down in the garden, as if Keith were watching him from above. One of him holding the metal disks of Keith’s card game. 

Shiro keeps staring down at the page. When he dares to look up, Keith is peering at him with that same steeled gaze. Silently, he reaches out and flips the page for him. 

On this second page, there’s a full-page sketch of Shiro, looking off into the middle distance. Keith’s spent time on this one. It’s less a doodle or sketch and more a portrait, committed through memory. It’s unsurprising he could give the portrait of him such detail, for all the times Keith’s simply stared at him, observing him. Somehow, Keith’s been able to capture a quiet calm in the picture, Shiro’s eyes soft at the edges, his mouth almost hinting a smile. 

Shiro feels a little breathless, staring at this rendering of him— the way he looks through Keith’s eyes. 

“I—” Shiro begins, and hushes, unsure what exactly he can possibly say. He’s overwhelmed. 

“There’s more,” Keith says, voice soft. “Many pages.” 

Shiro has no idea what to say to this. He looks up at Keith, helpless and overwhelmed, and Keith stares back at him with a stoic tilt of his chin— as if daring Shiro to defy him. Shiro studies himself on the page, beautiful and serene. Keith’s made him look beautiful. 

Shiro’s speechless. He looks back up at Keith, throat closed and eyes misty. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“I see you,” Keith mutters, frustrated. “I think of you. Often.” 

Shiro flushes. “Keith—” He flounders, hands trembling as he stares down at the evidence of Keith’s care for him, because that’s what Keith’s trying to tell him, isn’t it? “I haven’t— I never earned this.” 

Keith actually rolls his eyes. Shiro would want to laugh if he didn’t feel so stunned.

“_You believe yourself so unworthy,_” Keith says. “_I know this. You are so quick to downplay yourself._” Keith looks down, eyes tracing the edges of Shiro’s face in the portrait. He reaches out, his fingertips glancing across the page, stopping just where the pencil lines begin Shiro’s cheek. “But…” he says, softer, switching to Terran. “I wished… Shiro, I see you. Do you not see me?” 

Shiro doesn’t know what to make of the words. He holds the sketchbook in his hands still, gaping at Keith with undisguised shock. 

“Do you see me, Shiro?” Keith asks. When Shiro can’t answer, Keith says, “Tell me the thought you have not spoken.” 

Stupid, uncomprehending, all Shiro can manage is a clunky, “You haven’t marked me.” 

“No,” Keith agrees, looking at him steadily. “I haven’t.” 

Some of the anger’s eased from his expression— an anger, Shiro realizes, at Shiro’s own self-deprecation. Shiro can suppose that’s hardly the warrior way, as would be valued among the Galra. But he knows, deep down, that it goes beyond that for Keith. 

“Why?” Shiro presses. 

Keith stares at him, his voice blank as he answers, “You have not chosen me.” 

“You didn’t choose me, either,” Shiro protests. “We were made to get married. You— the mating pull, the— it’s just instinct for you, isn’t it? It could be anyone. I could be anyone.” 

Keith scoffs at him.

But Shiro is relentless, pressing onward. “It’s— Allura, she said—” He fumbles, confused and devastated. He scrubs a hand over his face, sighing out. “Isn’t this like scenting? Don’t you need to mark me or else it hurts?” 

“The mark is a gift,” Keith answers. “It will wait. It will hurt more to give to a mate who does not desire it. The pull is part of me, yes… but I am not— _I am not a slave to it._” 

Shiro stares at Keith. When Keith’s fingers shift across the page, Shiro glances down, watching in a wondering sort of quiet as Keith’s fingertip touches Shiro’s drawn face, tracing the sketch lines as if crafting him all over again. Some of the pencil mark smears across his jawline, leaving a shadow. No one’s ever paid such loving attention and detail to him before, he thinks, nothing like this. He can’t recall ever thinking he could look handsome, but he does, on this page. 

“The Galra mate for life,” Keith says again. “We choose our mates. Our mates choose us.” 

Shiro thinks of all the times he saw Keith in the morning, sketching, so quick to hide the paper away when Shiro climbed from bed. 

“Mates are equals, Shiro,” Keith says. Shiro lifts his gaze to find Keith, his eyes already on him. As before, but feeling more weighted, they gaze into one another’s eyes. “Both must choose. Both must fight. Both must answer the rite.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“I am waiting,” Keith says at last. His ears flick back, drooped. “I believe that you… that you—” Keith hesitates, biting his lip. “I do not know what you wish for, Shiro,” Keith says at last. “_You speak often of how we did not need to be married. You have not… completed the rite._” 

“What rite? I don’t understand.” 

Shiro leans forward, desperation clawing up his throat. He can recall all the times he might have offhandedly remarked on their marriage, at the dissolving of it, and never stopped to think how Keith would hear it. 

“Keith, you know that I don’t know everything about your people. You have to tell me.” 

“I know,” Keith murmurs, breaking eye contact and staring down at his hands. “I knew you didn’t understand. I thought that you…” Keith shakes his head. “But.” 

“But, what?” 

Keith is silent for a beat too long, his jaw clenched. “I did not… wish to hear it.” 

“Hear what?” 

“That you have not chosen me.” Keith sighs, closing his eyes. “That you will not complete the rite.” 

“Keith.” Shiro reaches out, hesitating, and touches Keith’s hand. Keith glances at him. “What rite?” 

“After you… stepped to the creature,” Keith says. “And, in the garden— I announced it formally. Did you not hear it?” 

Shiro recalls sparring with Keith for the first time, being pressed down into the earth, how Keith hovered above him and spoke words that sounded like a vow, like a promise, like a spell. 

Shiro hadn’t understood the words then. But he’d answered Keith all the same. It occurs to Shiro that Keith could have no idea what Shiro does and doesn’t understand of their translations if Shiro doesn’t say anything. 

Shiro finds himself holding his breath, staring at Keith expectantly. 

“I completed the rite,” Keith murmurs. “You have not. I am still waiting.” He squirms, suddenly shy, his ears flicking back. “If it is that you do not wish to, I don’t—” He ducks his head. “I am afraid to hear it.” 

Shiro’s heart twists up in his chest. “You think I’ve rejected you?” 

Keith squirms again, waiting, struggling to understand the words. Then, slowly, he glances at Shiro and says, “I am afraid you do not want me as I want you.” 

Shiro’s breath goes entirely too still, his eyes widening. He slowly lifts his head to stare at Keith, wondering.

“Keith…” 

“You— hold so much inside,” Keith elaborates, not looking at him. He touches at his braid, absently, tugging with a deep anxiety, his fingers curling around one curl of the red ribbon. “You hold yourself back. You do not let yourself want. You— You follow me. You do not let me follow you.” Keith struggles over the words, biting his lip, his fingers going tight around his braid. “I am waiting, but you believe I am mistaken.” 

“I didn’t—” 

“You believe you are unworthy,” Keith interrupts, his words slow but powerful as he struggles to place them in Terran. “Only my parents called me ‘Keith’.” Keith’s ears press tighter against his skull. “Few people listen to me. Or treat me like I matter. You believe you did not earn this? It is yours.” 

The Galra are led by a fighting spirit and he’s never seen Keith spar with anyone else. Never seen him pin someone down and whisper _my mate_ with such reverential awe, hands slotting between Shiro’s and gripping tight. 

A rite. A rite that Keith’s waiting for Shiro to complete. 

Keith, who curls up against him in the night, who plays games with him when he wakes from nightmares, who gives him a gift simply because he thinks it will make Shiro happy. 

A rite, born that night in the garden, the both of them sweating and panting and fighting against one another. Keith had pinned him down and spoken to him, waiting, Shiro now realizes, for Shiro to pin Keith in turn. To fight for him. To make himself his equal, not someone believing himself unworthy. Not believing he hadn’t earned Keith’s devotion. 

His breath goes still for all the ways he’s messed this up. But he can fix it. 

Keith wants him. Keith _chose_ him. The thought nearly bowls him over, rearranging every thought he’s held so tight— that Shiro was alone in this, that Keith had no choice, that Keith did not want him beyond an instinctual need.

But, Keith has never lied. He can trust Keith. 

And all this time, he’s left Keith waiting. 

Shiro sucks in a deep, steadying breath. He’s terrified, he realizes. He can acknowledge that much, even to himself. Terrified, but excited— he doesn’t want to fuck this up. He shuts Keith’s sketchbook with absolute care and, so gently, stands and retreats to their clothes. He sets it down there, out of the way of any danger. 

The entire time, he feels Keith’s eyes on his back and when he turns to face him, Keith looks terrified— as if Shiro’s about to run away again, as if he’s already resigned himself to another small rejection, another little cut. 

Keith’s waiting. He’s been waiting for Shiro to let himself want something— to step forward and take it. 

Shiro steadies his shoulders and walks to Keith, his hands held out to him, palms up. He waits until Keith takes them and, gently, pulls him onto his feet. 

He tangles their fingers together. Shiro knows what he needs to do. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, as deeply and formally as he can muster. “Fight me. Let me fight for you.” 

_That is its purpose, husband,_ Keith told him once, pressing Shiro down into the earth beneath him, _waiting_ for Shiro to fight and to win. 

It’s the first time Shiro’s ever initiated one of their spars. It seems it’s the right thing to say. He watches Keith’s eyes widen further as a little breath of surprise escapes him. And then his expression ripples, darkening into something like a promise. One hand lifts, pressing to Shiro’s chest, nails biting at his skin. 

Then, Keith downright snarls, barring his teeth, “My mate _will_ fight for me.” 

He shoves hard at Shiro and launches after him. And Shiro is there to meet him, catching Keith’s gut with his shoulder and throwing him off him. He pivots and chases him, throwing his full weight into Keith to pin him down.

If their previous fights have been like dancing, it’s nothing like this. There’s no grace in their movements now, only a darkened need, a desperation born from misunderstanding. Shiro dives for Keith and Keith angles away. Keith throws his full weight into his kicks at Shiro and Shiro can only just barely manage to dodge. They grapple on the ground, rolling and squirming, attempting to pin each other down, and there’s nothing graceful or gentle about it. 

Keith’s claws dig into Shiro’s shoulders as he throws him off and flings himself after him, his knee catching hard in Shiro’s solar plexus. Where before they moved like a defined unit, a tide, this is a crashing storm-fed wave. 

He can feel Keith’s fury, his passion— pouring all his longing into his movements, clawing at Shiro and dragging him towards him. 

Shiro growls and catches Keith’s wrists with his hands, heaving a breath and throwing him down. Keith rolls to their pile of discarded layers and grabs their ceremonial blades, as if guided by a higher force. When he tosses Shiro’s to him, Shiro catches it and, for the first time, it activates into a full blade— drawn just in time to catch Keith’s. 

Shiro can’t even appreciate or marvel at its transformation, fully realized, blade curved and hilt steady in his human hand, because Keith is there to fight him. Their blades sing, pulsing a bright Luxite purple, attuned to their quintessence. Shiro feels the warmth feeding off the ring on his finger, too. And Keith’s eyes are so bright, so purple. There’s no hatred in Keith’s eyes, no anger or disgust— only expectation, only a fight he’s been trying to fight since the beginning. 

Keith presses down against him, full weight thrown into his sword, straddling Shiro’s prone body. 

Shiro stares up at Keith, panting, his arms shaking with the force of holding up Keith’s weight against his blade. Instinctively, he knows a pair of blades forged for them could never actually hurt them. He doesn’t feel fear churning his gut forward, but adrenaline— a desire to finish things. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, staring up at his husband. 

The force of Keith’s blade lessens, just a little. Keith bares his fangs, growling again, ears flicking out towards him and eyes so dark, so steady. 

“Yield,” Keith tells him. 

Keith grunts when Shiro wriggles beneath him and digs his knee into his gut, forcing him off him. 

The sealgrass bows beneath them as Shiro rolls his body over and pins Keith down instead. Keith gasps, trying to shove him off but unable to manage it, exhausted and panting. His hair fans out around his head, a dark halo in the sealgrass. 

“Yield,” Shiro tells him, forcefully. 

But Keith refuses to do so, squirming beneath him to get free. Shiro’s blade shimmers in a burst of light and lessens to its knife-form. But Keith’s still fighting, still seeking escape. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, pinning him down with a weighted metal arm over his chest. So close. He can feel Keith’s panting breath, his eyes dark as he peers up at Shiro. 

Keith stares up at him, expectant and beholden. A part of him, Shiro realizes, must still be waiting for Shiro to turn away, to not choose this. In all the time Shiro feared not being worthy, he was only proving just that to Keith. 

Keith, who’s been waiting. 

Keith, who’s been fighting for him. 

Keith, who’s listened to him, who’s sought to understand him. Who’s only wanted the same from Shiro, in turn. 

Keith believes him worthy. Part of Shiro, maybe, wants to protest the thought— but he trusts Keith. He trusts Keith to know if Shiro deserves anything. 

An explorer. Seeking knowledge. 

Shiro’s hand reaches up, grasping, and catches a piece of Keith’s hair knocked loose from his braid. It’s silky to the touch, his fingertips brushing so sweetly over the length of it. Shiro doesn’t hesitate as he lifts it up, bringing it to his lips. 

His eyes fall shut as he kisses the strand of Keith’s hair, delicate and determined at once. He hears Keith’s breath hitch, his blade lessening until it, too, becomes a dagger in Keith’s hand. 

Keith stares up at him, looking very much like Shiro’s just struck him. 

“I chose you,” Shiro tells him, letting his arm sink hard against Keith’s chest. “Of course I chose you.” Keith’s eyes widen further, staring up at him. As if there’s nothing in the world that could shock him more. It makes Shiro’s heart ache. “How could I not care for you, too, Keith?” 

Keith doesn’t respond. 

“Tell me how to complete the rite,” Shiro begs. “I want you, Keith.” 

Keith still doesn’t respond, eyes wide. Instead, he summons his last well of strength and rips his hands up towards Shiro. Instead of throwing Shiro off, though, he merely catches his cheeks with his hands and yanks him down. 

He slams Shiro’s mouth against his in a clumsy kiss. Keith snarls, once, and then softens, kissing him with such force. And, of course, Shiro is helpless to do anything but kiss back. He bows to meet him, his entire body melting as he slots his mouth to Keith’s. 

He kisses Keith with everything he has, letting Keith bite first at his lip and then sweep his tongue into his mouth, followed by some primal instinct to lay claim to Shiro. And Shiro gives it all to him, gasps out when Keith’s teeth prick at his tongue and then suck it into his mouth. Keith’s fingers are unforgiving at his jaw, cupping his face and keeping him tethered to him. 

It’s the fiercest kiss that Shiro’s ever experienced, and by far the best. He groans, melting against Keith, and unable to do anything but kiss him back. Never wants to do anything else but kiss him back, to learn every corner of his mouth, the gasp of his breath, the slide of his tongue, the pinch of his teeth. He pillows his lips to Keith’s, trying to soften it. After a moment, Keith follows him— gentling the force of his kiss but unwilling to pull back. 

Shiro’s hand comes up to cradle Keith’s jaw and then slide back, tangling up in his hair. He drags Keith up, kissing him with all the force and affection he’s housed in his body, silent, for so long. Kissing Keith is a revelation. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to breathe again. 

And then Keith’s knee slots between Shiro’s legs and presses up. Shiro breaks the kiss with a gasp, panting, staring down at Keith with undisguised shock. 

Keith stares up at him, bold and relentless, his hair a tangled mess around him. He licks his lips, swollen from kissing Shiro with such force, and says, simply: “I am yours.” 

Shiro’s mouth opens, as if to speak, but no words come. He’s arrested by the words, the strength and the power behind them— the strength and power in _Keith_, beautiful and strong, sinuous and willowy strength stretched out in the sealgrass beneath him.

It feels appropriate that it should happen here, out here. It feels appropriate when Keith’s leg slides up and curls around Shiro’s hips, and drags him down so he can feel the thick edge of Keith— hard beneath him. If Shiro weren’t already half-hard, this would be enough to do it for him. 

A small part of him thinks they should stop, that they should talk more, that he needs to make sure he’s doing this all right. But a deeper part of himself doesn’t want to stop, wants to answer the call in Keith’s eyes. 

Shiro’s gentler when he cups Keith’s cheek, as he leans down and kisses him with promise rather than desperation, and Keith sighs. It tapers into a purr and Shiro feels it rumbling in his chest— some sort of contentment. 

“_I’m yours_,” he murmurs into Keith’s mouth, the Galran words clunky and foolish on his tongue. 

But Keith soothes the words away, his tongue sweeping up into Shiro’s mouth and stealing his breath. And that’s so much sweeter than anything else, the surety with which Keith cups the back of Shiro’s head, claws pricking. 

But still, Shiro takes Keith’s questing hands and pins them back down over Keith’s head, leaning down against him. Keith’s leg flexes at his hip and as Shiro shifts forward, he feels his cock slide up against Keith’s through the layers of their clothes. 

Keith’s eyes blow wide as he stares up at Shiro. And Shiro only murmurs: “Yield to me, _husband._” 

There’s no mistaking that Keith’s purring now. It’s loud, rumbling up his chest, vibrating his throat. 

Keith’s hands go slack under Shiro’s. Awed, Keith whispers, “I yield.” 

Shiro rewards him with a kiss, lurching down to slot his mouth to his. Keith keens, a soft purr punctuating the sound as he opens to Shiro. Shiro deepens that kiss, pressing full-bodied down against him and not protesting when Keith shakes his hands free so he can wrap his arms tight around Shiro’s shoulders, anchoring him down against him. 

They rut against each other like that, desperation fueling them on. Shiro feels Keith’s cock give a twitch against his and he thinks they could come just like this, rocking against each other without anything resembling finesse or technique. It’s only instinct that pushes him forward, kissing Keith with all his breath, feeling the sinuous slide of Keith’s body against his— a mate seeking his mate. 

He might not have an instinctive mating pull as Keith does, but there’s no denying that he is in Keith’s orbit. That he couldn’t escape if he tried. He never would want to. 

He moans quietly into the kiss and feels Keith’s answering keen, both legs curled tight around Shiro’s hips. Shiro fucks down against him like that, just seeking that friction through their clothes, pressed so tight and refusing to pull back, even enough to slide a hand down between them. Keith rolls his body against him, desperate. 

“Shiro,” Keith moans into the kiss and it sounds almost like a yowl. 

“Let me— let me—” Shiro huffs into the kiss, unsure what he’s asking for or how to put words to it. He’s beyond language now, only seeking Keith, who rises to meet him— kissing him breathless and dragging his teeth over his bottom lip, pulling him in closer. 

Shiro manages to squirm a hand between them, pressing it up against the line of Keith’s cock in his trousers. Keith gasps and yowls again, rocking desperately against his hand, and Shiro can’t even manage to reach inside and touch him before he’s coming with a purring cry, breaking the kiss to nuzzle desperately at Shiro’s neck, licking and nipping there. 

His body rolls beneath him, seeking his heat, his touch. Shiro holds him as Keith trembles, as Keith gives a plaintive mewl against his neck, nuzzling. 

The realization crests over Shiro in waves and he grips Keith tight, rocking his hips down to meet him and whispering, “Mark me. Make me yours, Keith.” 

Keith’s mewl turns into a growl, almost a snarl, something heated and possessive in the way he grips Shiro tight. He hardly needs to be told twice. He noses at Shiro’s neck and then bites down hard. Shiro groans out loud when he feels Keith’s fangs sink down deep against the spot on his neck just below his ear, where his jaw meets. The spot where Keith’s scented him time and again. Marked now. Keith’s. 

Keith presses close, fangs deep and a rumbling, pleased growl vibrating his chest. He clings to Shiro like a limpet and with one steady rock of his hips, Shiro feels himself shudder and come in his pants like a teenager, seeking Keith’s body against his. Shiro grips Keith tight, giving a lone cry as Keith starts lapping at the wound he’s left on his neck like a kitten, little swipes of his tongue. Definitive and possessive, a pleased rumble purring in his chest. 

Keith holds himself there, unmoving, and Shiro feels himself start to tremble, breathless and still on edge— wanting more. Wanting to feel Keith in his arms, to feel Keith coming apart against him. His neck aches with the mark, pulsing with his blood and with something that feels like magic or quintessence or whatever it might be in this cosmic universe, bearing down on him, holding someone in his arms and knowing he’s precious. And what a strange, remarkable thing it is— that in all the universe, and all his years of having no one, that he should find someone he could see himself being with forever. 

There’s a calmness to Keith’s eyes when he draws back with one final lick, his mouth ghosting against his jaw. He whispers, reverential and sated, “Mine.” 

When he presses his forehead to Shiro’s, Shiro can only breathe, trembling apart beneath Keith’s sure hands. “Yours,” he whispers back, licking his lips. “Do— am I supposed to bite you, too?” 

Keith looks shy at the words— as if, somehow, he’s embarrassed to have it mentioned so openly. Maybe it’s like that for a mating mark. Keith’s fingertips touch Shiro’s mouth and then, teasingly, run along the flat edge of his front teeth with a telling smile.

“You might try,” Keith suggests. “But you were not made to give the mark. And, besides…” He pulls his hand back but only to curl his fingers, pressing his mouth against the ring he wears there— Shiro’s ring. “I am marked as yours already.” 

“But we’re both meant to have one, aren’t we?” Shiro asks. 

Keith nods, but doesn’t seem distressed or upset. The change is instantaneous, now that he’s bestowed the mark— he lies out in the sealgrass beneath Shiro, looking utterly content. Secured. His fingertips brush down Shiro’s neck and back up again, touching the mark as if marveling at its presence. It sends a shiver trembling down Shiro’s spine. 

All Shiro can do is lean down and kiss him, to pour everything he’s feeling into that action alone. Keith sighs and rises to meet him. Their kiss is far sweeter than the others, just a brush of their mouths together, a sharing of their breath. 

“You’re beautiful,” Shiro whispers when they break the kiss. Keith doesn’t let him draw back, so he speaks the words against Keith’s mouth, his lips brushing against his. He’s wanted to say it for so long. 

Keith makes a soft sound, eyes blinking open to meet Shiro’s, holding his gaze. He hopes that Keith can see that he means it— that, if he had the under-voice or ears or whatever other things that could telegraph the truth of his words, _this_ would be the only thing he would feel. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says again, softer this time, his mouth a gentle curve against Keith’s. 

And he thinks Keith believes him, watching his expression soften as he gazes up at Shiro. His fingertips touch Shiro’s jaw, skimming. His fingertips ghost over Shiro’s kiss-swollen mouth. 

“You…” Keith whispers, “are beautiful, Shiro.” 

Shiro can’t recall having anyone ever call him such. It must show on his face— the touch of surprise melting into the smitten smile he feels plucking at his mouth. He can’t hold it back. He doesn’t try to. 

There’s something like relief inside him. Reassurance. 

And then Keith throws him off him and rolls after him, sliding his body up and straddling Shiro’s hips. Keith rips his own shirt off and reaches for Shiro, pulling Shiro up from the sealgrass and dragging him into a kiss. Shiro’s arms wrap around Keith obediently as Keith wriggles in his lap and kisses him, fingers scratching at the back of Shiro’s neck, dragging through the short buzz of his undercut. 

“You are mine,” Keith growls and lays worship to his mouth, licking at his lips. 

Shiro hums quietly and kisses him back, sucking on Keith’s bottom lip until he starts whimpering, until his purr kicks back up in his chest. Pressed to Shiro’s, he can feel it rumbling through their bodies, like they’re already joined, like they’re one. 

He didn’t think it was possible to get hard again so quickly and yet Keith wriggling in his lap is doing just that, fueled onward by the energy Keith feeds him. He feels Keith responding against him in turn. 

He slides his hand down Keith’s back and cups his ass, dragging him in closer and rocking his hips up so Keith can feel him. Keith keens quietly and bites Shiro’s tongue, soft like a tease. 

Keith wriggles in his lap, grinding his hips down. Shiro’s near to fully hard again, so quick he feels dizzy, and aching in his trousers— if they were tight before, it’s nothing like this. This is agony. He drags his hands over Keith, touching every inch of him. 

He breaks the kiss to nuzzle at Keith’s jaw and neck. Keith downright _mewls_, tilting his head back when Shiro drags his teeth over the spot where Keith scents Shiro. He nuzzles there, mimicking him, lapping his tongue and feeling Keith go boneless in his arms. 

He trails his mouth over his jaw and up. When he catches the furred edge of Keith’s ear in his mouth, Keith shudders and only just holds back a yowl, shoving him back. His face is all twisted up and Shiro grins. 

“Ticklish?” 

Keith’s ears skirt back and then flick forward again as Keith traces his fingers down Shiro’s chest— touching the slope of a scar, the line of his muscles, just touching him. 

“I’m yours,” Shiro reminds him, voice hushed, and arches into Keith’s hands. Keith’s eyes turn molten, drinking him in. “I’m yours,” he says again, kissing Keith’s forehead. “Keith. _Keith._” 

Keith’s response is to shove Shiro back down, letting him sprawl out in the sealgrass. He lifts himself up enough to dig his fingers in Shiro’s trousers and _yank._ He strips Shiro down with startling efficiency. 

Shiro watches Keith drink him in, eyes dragging down over his body. He stops at Shiro’s cock, studying him with open, hungry desire paired with an almost scientific curiosity. His eyes even widen when, under his heavy gaze, it gives a little twitch. 

Keith reaches out to touch Shiro, palming him— and looking up to Shiro when Shiro sucks in a sharpened, pleased breath at the friction. Keith bites his lip as he drags his palm down and curls his fingers along the base, seeming to marvel at the way his fingers close around him. 

“It’s very straight,” Keith observes, and strokes him experimentally. 

“Ha,” Shiro breathes, arching his hips up and sliding his cock through the circle of Keith’s hand. He knows he won’t be able to quickly or accurately explain the _only straight thing about me_ joke that jumps to the front of his mind. Instead, he smiles. “Is that bad?” 

“You have no bulbs,” Keith elaborates. 

Shiro blinks fuzzily up at him, all higher thinking slowly unfurling in his mind, replaced only by the feeling of Keith’s hand on him and the way Keith’s hair frames his face— so pretty, so fierce. His mate. His husband. _Keith._

“You are very big, though,” Keith murmurs, sounding impressed, and squeezes his cock. Shiro groans, eyes fluttering shut as he rocks into Keith’s touch. 

He tries to touch Keith in turn and Keith allows it, letting Shiro’s hands drag down his chest, but he doesn’t release Shiro’s cock and he doesn’t let Shiro pull his trousers off. He strokes Shiro off, dragging his hand up and sweeping it back down. 

He studies Shiro’s face, seeking the spots on his cock that pull the deepest sighs from him. It’s how he ends up thumbing at his cockhead, sliding against the slit as it goes slick with his precome. Keith seems fascinated by that, too, watching it bead up at the tip of his cock and then sweeping it down to slick him up. 

“Is this…?” Keith murmurs, quietly. 

“Yeah, Keith,” Shiro answers, mindless. “I’ll tell you if something’s not good. You’re perfect. God, you’re—” He grips Keith’s wrist, guiding him down. “You’re perfect.” 

Keith’s smile is an unfurling, gentle thing but deeply felt and he follows Shiro’s guidance, stroking Shiro off with more confidence. He squeezes him at the base and corkscrews his hand down the length of him. 

And when Shiro comes in his hand, Keith lets out a delighted little sound at the shiny ropes of Shiro’s come painting his stomach. Keith catches it with his fingertips, too, slick with it, brushing over Shiro’s trembling belly and marveling at his fingers. He spreads them, come spiderwebbing between the digits. 

“Keith, please,” Shiro murmurs, his hands finding Keith’s trousers, staring at the bulge in the front of it. “Let me…” 

Only then does Keith look shy, cheeks flushing purple as he looks down at Shiro’s hands at his hips, waiting for permission to strip him down. 

Still Keith hesitates and Shiro makes a soft sound and reaches for his hand. It’s still slick with his own release, but Shiro doesn’t care, intertwining their fingers together. He tugs Keith’s hand down, turning it so he can press a kiss to his wrist, and nuzzles, scenting him. 

That makes Keith relax, his eyes softening and his smile uncurling across his face. 

“Tell me what you like, Keith,” Shiro murmurs. 

Keith hesitates, eyes flickering away, his eyelashes fanning so prettily across his cheeks. Shiro might be feeling just the slightest bit moony post-orgasm, just a little bit overwhelmed with affection and desire. But Keith is beautiful in the light of the Altean sun. He wants to stare at him forever. He wants to get lost in his eyes.

“We mate for life,” Keith explains. “I’ve never…” Blushing, he coughs. “I’ve never.” 

“I understand,” Shiro tells him, and he does. He kisses Keith’s hand, dragging his tongue over his palm. Keith’s skin tastes like Shiro’s seed, the sealgrass, sweat. It should be disgusting but Shiro can only find it intoxicating. 

He lifts his free hand, stroking Keith’s cheek and sliding back, tentatively dragging his finger along the back of Keith’s ear. It’s the right choice, though: he watches his husband melt utterly above him. 

“Let me try something?” he asks. “And if you don’t like it, I’ll try something else.” 

He waits patiently as Keith parses the words, head tilting and butting his head into Shiro’s hand to encourage him to keep petting at his ear. Shiro does so, letting Keith luxuriate. 

Shiro waits a beat longer before he helps Keith sit up and eases his trousers down off his hips and out of each leg. He’s polite, eyes on Keith’s as he works and only waits until Keith settles back into his lap before he looks down at his cock, curious at what he’ll see. 

He understands now what Keith meant by bulbs. Keith’s cock is thicker than it is long. It’s short and stubby, less a tapered line like Shiro’s and more like two small, round bulbs fused together with a flared head. The bottom bulb’s wider than the top, so thick that Shiro can only imagine how stretched he’ll feel whenever Keith first fucks him. 

He flushes at the thought, and when he glances up at Keith, it’s to find Keith’s eyes heated and steady on him— studying him for his reaction. 

“No balls?” Shiro asks and it’s probably the stupidest thing he could ever ask. 

Keith tilts his head. “Balls?” 

“These,” Shiro indicates, dropping his hand down to cup his own. 

The action makes Keith giggle, flushing and dragging his eyes over Shiro’s cock and balls with an assessing eye. “Ridiculous,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, “To have them on the outside…” 

Shiro supposes that’s fair. He leans up, catching Keith’s mouth in a kiss and swallowing Keith’s pleased sigh. 

He closes his hand around Keith’s cock— marveling at the thickness. The cock fits perfectly in his hand, stubby and full against his palm. Keith makes a low keening sound when he’s touched, shivering in Shiro’s arms. 

“I’ll take care of you,” Shiro assures him quietly and lays him down into the sealgrass, stretching him out beneath him. Keith goes, pliant and curious, his hands touching Shiro’s shoulders. He spreads his legs, making space for Shiro to kneel before him. 

He palms Keith’s cock, stroking a little. There are little bumps along the underside of Keith’s cock, secreting a lubricant. It only takes a few strokes for Shiro’s hand to be slick along Keith’s cock. 

He’s overwhelmed with the choices. Keith’s cock slicks Shiro’s fingers up enough that he could finger Keith open and fuck into him, or just straddle Keith and sink down against him instead. He could do any number of things, knows that Keith’s done none of it and suddenly there’s so much they could do, together— figure out what Keith wants, what he likes. Together. 

He leans down and kisses Keith, just stroking him off for now, squeezing over one bulb and then the next. He explores, finding the spots that see most sensitive, based on Keith’s sounds. His husband mewls quietly into the kiss, hips shuddering up as Shiro strokes over the sides of his bottom bulb. 

“_Shiro_,” Keith yowls. 

Shiro’s response is to break the kiss and squirm down Keith’s body, pressing a sloppy open-mouthed kiss to his stomach. Then, experimentally, he licks at the underside of Keith’s cock to taste that slick. It’s a taste he can’t quite place— almost like cucumber, he thinks, although _that’s_ an odd thought. 

Keith shudders out a gasp, nearly squirming away entirely from Shiro. “Shiro!” 

“Okay?” Shiro asks, nuzzling at Keith’s thigh. 

Keith bites his lip. Shiro thinks he was merely surprised, not distressed— his ears are pitched forward, absorbing every sound and move Shiro makes. Tentatively, Keith nods his head. 

“Yes…” 

“Feel good?” 

Keith rolls his eyes, blushing. “I do not answer.” 

“Fishing for compliments, right?” Shiro teases. 

“Yes. Fishing,” Keith sniffs, clearly fighting back a smile. 

Shiro laughs, beaming up at him, and reaches for Keith’s hand to guide it to his hair, prompting Keith to curl his fingers through the longer pieces and push them back from Shiro’s face. Then Shiro ducks his head in earnest, dragging his tongue from bulbed base to flared tip. 

Keith’s purr rattles up in his chest, a hiccupping little sound as he stares, open-mouthed, at what Shiro’s doing. And Shiro’s never felt so flattered, prompting such a response from his husband. He smiles a little, dragging his lips and tongue over him, exploring every dip, curve, and angle of his cock. It pulses in his hand, making everything slippery as he strokes him and sucks at the underside. The little bumps seem like ridges— to catch on the inside of Shiro’s body, he thinks. 

He shivers at the thought and takes the flared head into his mouth. The tip is more like a hood over the slit of his cock, tucked beneath it and slippery with Keith’s precome. Shiro mouths at it, laving his tongue. He chases Keith’s sounds. When Keith gives a muffled growl around his purr, Shiro buckles down and keeps doing what he’s doing. He curls his tongue down the length of him, bobbing his head forward. 

Keith lets him do as he wants— lets him find Keith in this. No more waiting. 

It’s easy to swallow Keith entirely, once he relaxes enough. His jaw aches with the stretch around Keith’s girth, but the tip of Keith’s cock slides easily over his tongue and down his throat. Keith’s fingers in his hair are firm, tugging a little when he remembers to do so but mostly overwhelmed with holding his sounds back. 

Shiro’s addicted to the sounds. Keith’s purr is near deafening and it cuts off only so Keith can gasp for breath and moan Shiro’s name. It sounds beautiful on Keith’s tongue, the way he tips his head back and his hair tumbles back into the sealgrass. 

Keith’s cock pulses in his mouth, seeking out his heat. Shiro hollows his cheeks, bobbing his head and swallowing around him, milking him down. It’s an exquisite feeling on his tongue. He welcomes the ache and stretch of it, the taste. 

He noses at Keith’s stomach, feeling the heave of Keith’s breath, the scratch of his pubic hair, thicker than the fur over the rest of his body. Keith’s cock slips over his tongue as Keith rocks his hips up to meet him and in the absence of balls to fondle, Shiro lets his hand slip up Keith’s thigh and back, seeking out his hole. 

He finds it and strokes his fingers over him, teasing. Keith keens, hips rocking up hard enough that if Shiro weren’t already relaxed and open to him, he might have choked. Shiro draws off Keith’s cock with a heavy breath, just sucking at the cockhead as he runs his fingertips along the underside, collecting that slick pooling at the base and slipping over the bulbs. 

Once slick up enough, he seeks Keith’s hole again, prodding gently and then squirming one finger up inside him. He pauses then, looking up at Keith to gauge his reaction as Keith clenches around him. 

Keith’s a panting mess, his braid knocked almost completely loose now, long strings sticking to his forehead and cheeks, his lips parted. He pants down at Shiro, eyes wide and heated. 

Shiro laps at his cockhead, toying with the slit, and Keith closes his eyes and mewls, his purr rattling away in his chest. He’s so fucking beautiful and Shiro can’t get enough of him. 

“That okay?” Shiro asks. 

Keith can only nod his head, nonverbal and yanking on Shiro’s hair. 

Shiro strokes his finger inside Keith, aided by the slip of Keith’s own slick. It makes the movement easing and Keith clenches around him, cock pulsing against his tongue. 

Keith doesn’t even warn him that he’s coming. Shiro can guess when the pulsing starts growing in frequency, deep and twitching inside Shiro’s mouth. He bobs his head with renewed interest, wanting to taste him, wanting to feel him. He knows the way Keith looks when he comes now, and he wants to see it again and again. 

His warning is a deep, final pulse and Keith clenching down against his finger. Shiro gives one final suck before he pulls off to watch. Keith’s come isn’t white when it streaks across his stomach, but translucent like the slick— almost lavender in color against Keith’s heaving violet stomach. 

Shiro licks over his abs, collecting each little stripe of come, sucking bruising kisses against his skin once he’s done just to feel the vibration of Keith’s purr beneath his lips. Keith’s belly is soft, the fur so light and fine against his tongue. Keith’s breathless, heaving in gulps of air and shuddering apart beneath him. 

Keith’s cock doesn’t go soft, though, pressing against his stomach. Perhaps the bulbs are a bit deflated, if Shiro had to guess, but it’s clear Keith’s nowhere near finished. 

Keith yanks on his hair and drags him up for a sloppy kiss. He laps at Shiro’s mouth, tasting himself, chewing on his bottom lip with a pleased, possessive growl. He breaks the kiss only to nuzzle at Shiro’s neck and bite at his neck again, reemphasizing the mating mark with a kiss from his fangs. 

Shiro groans, accepting it with a little twitch of his hips, cock sliding over Keith’s stomach. Keith drags his tongue over the mark in slow licks and pulls away looking triumphant. 

“Shiro,” he purrs. 

Shiro smiles down at him and presses the lightest kiss against his mouth, nuzzling his nose to his. He tips his head down, running his fingertips along Keith’s cock to see if he’ll respond or if he’ll be oversensitive. Keith angles his hips up, seeking that touch. 

“You’re still hard,” Shiro marvels.

Keith nods, looking shy again. “It will take several times to…” He blushes. “Empty.” 

Shiro grins, delirious with the thought of it. “I can manage that.” 

Keith laughs, breathless, and loops his arms around Shiro’s shoulders, dragging him back down to kiss him. Shiro sighs, kissing him back with renewed interest, sated and overwhelmed with everything he wants to do, overwhelmed to be held in Keith’s arms like he’s something precious— something desired. 

His mate. He’s marked with Keith’s bite— his, for eternity. 

He runs his fingers through Keith’s slick, making his fingers sloppy with it before he seeks Keith’s hole again. He teases at the rim as he kisses Keith, working his fingers along the edge of his body, making him wet with his own slick. Keith trembles beneath him, spreading his legs to him. 

“This is okay?” he murmurs into the kiss. 

Keith’s response is to bite his mouth and kiss him deeper with a pleased growl. Keith reaches down, stroking himself off. 

“You keep saying.” Keith bites Shiro’s lip again and reminds him, “No fishing.” 

Shiro laughs. “Right. No fishing.” 

Shiro thinks he’ll just keep doing that, but a moment later, Keith releases himself and then presses his slicked fingers against Shiro’s hole. 

Shiro breaks the kiss with a startled gasp. Keith leans back, observing him, studying him for any sign of displeasure. 

But all Shiro can do is grin. “Hey…” 

Keith looks up at him innocently even as he wriggles two fingers inside Shiro, exploring him. Shiro’s back arches despite himself, sighing out as he sinks his hips down to meet Keith’s hand, feeling him finger him open as he fingers Keith in turn. 

Keith’s a fast learner, watching Shiro’s face and mimicking Shiro’s own moves. He tugs gently at Shiro’s rim, dragging him open. He withdraws only to fuck his cock into his own fist, making himself slick again, and returns. His fingers slide inside Shiro easily and Shiro has to duck his head into Keith’s neck, shuddering pleasantly. 

“Good, baby, good,” he coos. 

Keith makes a soft sound, confusion, and frowns at Shiro. “I am no infant.” 

Shiro bursts into laughter as he pulls himself up to meet Keith’s eyes. His mate looks indignant, pouting. Shiro kisses him just because he can and slides a second finger inside Keith just so Keith can experience the fullness of it. 

Keith keens, eyelids fluttering. 

“Sweetheart, then?” Shiro asks, grinning, rocking his hips down against Keith’s hand. 

Keith’s frown deepens. “If you were to eat a Galran heart, it would not be sweet. Our blood is iron-based as yours is.” 

Shiro laughs, helplessly and kisses Keith’s jaw, nuzzling absently. “My beautiful, logical mate,” he murmurs, smiling as he leans up to kiss Keith’s ear. “They’re Terran pet names.” 

“I am no pet, either,” Keith says, but his mouth is twitching with amusement— teasing Shiro, too, then. 

“Hmmm…” 

Shiro hums and starts fucking his fingers into Keith in earnest, stroking in, teasing at his rim. He presses in deep, seeking another yowl from Keith; he has no idea if the Galra would have something like a prostate, if Keith would have gotten such for his human heritage, but he’s more than willing to find out. Keith keens, his sounds breathless and purring. 

“My heart, then?” Shiro asks. “My darling, my mate, my baby, my star?” 

Keith laughs around his moan, shaking his head, looking completely embarrassed and overwhelmed at once. He hides his face against his shoulder but not before Shiro sees his pleased smile. 

Keith squirms a third finger inside Shiro, brutally, and slams up hard inside him. Shiro arches with a gasp, momentarily losing all language as Keith very effectively finds his prostate, sending a cascade of pleasure rippling through him. 

“_As long as I am yours,_” Keith says, quietly, “_I suppose I can be whatever you wish._” 

Perhaps he didn’t expect Shiro to understand the Galran words, but Shiro’s been practicing, and the translator is slowly adapting to the prolonged, extensive speech between the two of them. Regardless, Shiro feels himself flood with warmth, overwhelmed for a moment with the trust and care Keith offers him. Keith believes him deserving. Keith believes him worthy. 

He kisses Keith, first on the mouth and then on the nose. He presses his forehead to his and gazes into his eyes. 

“Keith,” he whispers and feels Keith shiver beneath him. 

“You may call me baby,” Keith decides, closing his eyes. “I like that.” 

“Baby,” Shiro answers, obediently. He rolls back against Keith’s hand as he fucks him in earnest, smiling. “Trying to get me to come first?” 

His husband’s eyes glitter with undisguised competitiveness, grinning up at him. He’s all teeth and fang, eyes wild with desire and combat. He’s never looked so beautiful as when he’s sprawled out fierce beneath Shiro’s body. 

“Yes,” he says, bold as ever. 

“Maybe I’ll make _you_ come first,” Shiro tells him and stretches Keith’s body open, fucking him with his fingers. 

Keith’s legs draw open beneath him, lifting his hips to rock down against Shiro’s fingers. He licks his lips and says, “If I release first, you will fuck me. If you release, I will fuck you.” 

Shiro’s pace stutters to a halt, the words and Keith’s burning gaze nearly enough to prompt him into coming. He only just holds back. 

“How did you learn the word ‘fuck’?” Shiro asks, laughing. He wishes he could have seen Hunk’s face when that happened. 

Keith laughs, too, a soft little giggle as he rolls his hips back down against Shiro’s hand, prompting him to keep moving. He doesn’t answer Shiro, though, hooking his arm around his neck and drawing him in for a sweet kiss. 

Shiro sighs, melting against him, even as Keith whimpers beneath him when Shiro removes his fingers in order to slick himself up again by stroking over Keith’s cock. Keith’s cock twitches in his hand and he gives it a loving squeeze, feeling the pulse of Keith’s bulb against his palm. 

Keith breaks the kiss with a little gasp, his purr rumbling so loud and forcefully that Shiro feels it rumbling through his entire body. 

“Can’t wait to have this inside me,” Shiro tells Keith as he gives his cock one last squeeze and then pulls his slicked hand away. 

Keith hums and his hand finds Shiro’s cock in turn, squeezing gently and stroking, thumb pressing at his cockhead and collecting the precome there. 

“And this inside me,” Keith says around a little smile.

Inevitably, though, Keith is at a disadvantage— it’s not just Shiro’s fingers inside him, but how he strokes Keith’s cock to slick himself back up again. It’s two points of contact and as Shiro works a fourth finger inside him just to see if Keith can handle it, Keith ends up rocking up against Shiro’s body, fucking down against his hand and coming over their stomachs in lavender streaks. 

“Baby,” Shiro coos, praising, and nuzzles at his neck. Keith keens out a low whimper, rutting against him as Shiro’s hand finds him and curls around the top bulb, squeezing and milking him dry. 

Keith grumbles but doesn’t seem too displeased as he licks Shiro’s jaw and ear. He nuzzles against him and whispers, “Fuck me. Claim your reward, husband.” 

“Fuck!” Shiro whimpers, the word punching out of him. He presses Keith down, pushing him into the warm earth, the sealgrass bowing around them. 

Keith looks triumphant, flushing a darker purple over his face and chest as he breathes beneath him, ears upright and eyes half-lidded. He spreads his legs to Shiro, his hole loose and slick and waiting for him. 

Keith’s hand drops down to touch at his own hole, exploring. He presses two fingers easily inside himself and spreads, as if Shiro needs any more enticement to sink into him. Shiro swears again, dropping forward onto his hands and caging Keith in, fumbling one hand to fist his cock and guide it to Keith’s hole. 

Keith keens a low mewl, purr kicking up in his chest again as Shiro pushes his cockhead into Keith’s loose hole. Keith sinks his hips down to meet him with a pleased sound, hand reaching out to grasp Shiro’s cock for him and guide it inside the welcoming heat of his body. 

Despite Shiro’s thorough prep, though, Keith is tight. As Shiro sinks home, Keith squeezes around him. All Shiro can do is gasp and moan, ducking his head as he rolls his hips up in slow bursts, slowing inching in. Keith wriggles beneath him, although whether he’s impatient or encouraging, Shiro isn’t sure. 

“Baby,” he gushes, panting. “Baby, you’re so beautiful. You’re so good.” 

Keith’s hand lifts, petting Shiro’s face, fingertips touching at his cheek, his jaw, his chin. He guides him down into a sweet kiss as Shiro sinks fully into Keith, bottoming out until his balls press flushed up against Keith’s body.

That seems to delight Keith, at least. He giggles, reaching down to cup Shiro’s balls and then touch at the very base of his cock, the little piece of him that can’t breach fully into Keith’s body. 

“You’re big,” Keith sighs, his smile curved into a pleased smile. 

“Feel good?” Shiro asks. 

Keith hums, hand falling to his belly, touching there as if he might be able to feel Shiro’s cock inside him. “Yes,” he murmurs, squeezing around him. Then he lifts his hand and pets some of the hair away from Shiro’s face, tenderly. “Yes, Shiro. Yes.” 

Shiro closes his eyes and leans against the touch. Keith cups his cheek, his hand so soft against him, and Shiro only feels wanted, precious and understood. 

He cups his hands over Keith’s hips and lifts them up to make the angle better. He shuffles a little, positioning himself, and pulls out just enough to give an experimental stroke inwards. 

Keith’s response is to purr loudly, eyes shut and smiling. His body trembles but he flexes down to meet Shiro as he thrusts again. The purr is loud, the only sound Shiro can hear or focus on as he fucks into Keith. 

He sets a steady pace, following the little cries of pleasure Keith makes, angling his thrusts to be slow and deep, to fill Keith entirely as he writhes. He palms at his cock, squeezing at each bulb and thumbing at the flared head. 

Keith cries out, clawing at Shiro’s back to drag him in closer so he can find his mouth. He bites at his bottom lip and then sweeps in, kissing him with surprising gentleness, like he’s trying to share his breath with Shiro. 

Shiro runs his hands over him, just touching him, following the willowy lines of his body, feeling him writhe and tremble against his touch, against the stroke of his cock. 

Keith hooks his legs around Shiro’s hips, hugging him in close to keep him from pulling back too far. It means Shiro can only do short, shallow thrusts, but that just makes Keith start mewling and clawing at his back as he strikes hard inside him. Shiro shifts his hips, changing the angle, seeking the spot that will make his husband yelp the loudest. When he finds it, he focuses on it, his pace brutal. 

Keith yowls low in Shiro’s ear as he clings to him, licking desperately at his mating mark. Shiro closes his eyes, luxuriating in the feeling of it. He never realized this could be so calming, so overwhelmingly perfect. 

“Going to come,” he murmurs into Keith’s ear and Keith shudders, squeezing around him. 

“Inside,” Keith says back, and nothing more, his voice gravely and punched-out. 

And, of course, Shiro will do nothing but obey him. He fucks into Keith in earnest, seeking his release. Shiro rocks his body up, gripping Keith’s hips and dragging him down to meet him, grinding against him. 

Keith mewls, throwing his head back, exposing his neck. Shiro ducks in close, nuzzling there. He hesitates, licking at the spot where Keith marked him.

And sinks his teeth against him. It takes more force than he realized to break skin, and it’s a blunter bite than the fanged puncture Keith gifted him, but Keith’s cry is both shocked and pleased as he shudders in Shiro’s arms. 

“Shiroo_ooo_,” he moans and comes over Shiro’s chest. 

It should feel violent. Shiro has hurt plenty of people in the past, has been hurt by many more. And yet here, holding Keith close and biting into his skin, it only feels simple— like breathing, like being held by him. 

Shiro squeezes Keith’s hips, nose wrinkling at the coppery taste of Keith’s blood— indeed, not sweet— but licks purposefully at the wound. He has no idea if it’ll actually scar the way he imagines his mating mark will, but it’s a start. 

Keith squeezes around him and that’s it. Shiro comes inside Keith in forceful thrusts, holding Keith steady as he fucks into him. Keith can only mewl loudly, body shuddering as he milks Shiro dry. 

As soon as Keith can recall himself, his hand flies up, touching at the spot at his neck. He pulls his fingers back, gazing at the spot of blood on one finger. Shiro catches his hand in his and kisses his wrist and then his palm, then licks at his fingertips. 

It makes Keith smile. “You’ve marked me.” 

“I’m yours,” Shiro agrees. 

Keith’s smile widens and he pets his fingers through Shiro’s hair and frames his face with his palms, just holding him. Just staring up at him, wondering and serene. 

“Will you fuck me, baby?” Shiro asks. 

Keith hums, petting Shiro’s cheek and dropping his hand down between them. He feels at Shiro’s cock, softening inside of his body, and wriggles his fingers in alongside Shiro’s cock, feeling at the come Shiro’s filled him with. Exploring.

“Yes,” Keith says. “Since I made you release.” 

“Only fair,” Shiro agrees. 

Keith’s answer is a grin, drawing his fingers out of inside himself and marveling at the slick white on his fingers. Shiro groans weakly as Keith licks at his finger, testing the taste. 

“Strange,” Keith announces. Then he sucks both fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling. He smiles as he draws them from his mouth, slick but clean.

Shiro can only kiss him. 

Keith laughs, softly, and accepts the kiss, cradling his jaw and sweeping his tongue into his mouth. He wriggles his hips until Shiro pulls out of him. Keith pushes at him until Shiro’s the one sprawled out in the grass and Keith’s towering over him. 

Keith bites Shiro’s lip just before he breaks the kiss and pulls back, observing Shiro beneath him as he reaches a hand back behind himself, stuffing himself with his fingers and pulling Shiro’s come out from inside him, slicking his fingers up. 

Shiro can only watch, slack-jawed, and spread his legs when Keith crawls to him and prods at his hole. He’s already loose with Keith’s own slick, but now Keith uses Shiro’s own come to work him open further. 

Shiro’s still soft, but watching Keith stare down at his hole is near enough to prompt him into hardness again. All the more so when Keith ducks his head and presses a little kitten kiss against the head of his cock. Shiro groans, panting. 

“Fuck me,” he begs. “Want you inside me, baby.” 

Keith smirks, seeming so proud of himself, and settles up above Shiro. He leans into his neck, nuzzling and licking at his mating mark, affirming it’s still there, taking pleasure in its presence. Shiro nuzzles back at him weakly, already sated from coming so many times but needing more, just wanting more. 

He catches a piece of Keith’s hair, wild and loose around his shoulders, and winds his fingers around it. He tugs, playfully, and Keith makes a garbled, pleased sound. When he draws back to look at Shiro, Shiro only presses a little kiss to the strand of it. 

Keith’s eyes go dark and promising. He palms Shiro’s cheek, thumb brushing over his lip. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, kissing his thumb. 

He sighs when Keith skims his hand down Shiro’s chest, squeezing his soft cock and then pulling back. He hooks his hands under Shiro’s knees, yanking him closer, pulling him through the grass. He settles Shiro’s ass up against his folded legs, eyes on Shiro’s flexing stomach as he adjusts to the position. 

Shiro only regrets that he can’t see Keith’s cock disappearing inside his body. He bites his lip to hold back a pleased moan as the flared head prods at his hole. He spreads his legs further and forces himself to relax as Keith pushes inside him. 

He was right about the stretch. He whimpers happily as he hits the first bulb. He wriggles his hips, coaxing Keith in closer. Keith holds still, though, eyes on Shiro’s hole. The intense stare is near enough to make Shiro feel shy, but not enough to stop. But Keith studies his hole, watches him clench and relax, and slowly teases his bulb inside Shiro. 

By the time Keith starts coaxing the bottom bulb into him, Shiro’s crying out, back arching and fingers digging into the soft dirt of the ground beneath him. 

“Fuck,” he moans, “Fuck, Keith…” 

He knows he’s longer and thicker than Keith, ultimately, marveled at how well Keith took him— while Keith’s cock threatens to shake him apart. It’s the strange feeling of it, foreign and alien, but _perfect_. He wants to come on his cock again and again. 

He wriggles his hips, coaxing Keith in deeper. 

Keith strokes his hands over him, soothing. Shiro feels so tight, Keith so endless. He rolls his hips down and, finally, feels Keith bottom out, the full width of his bulbs inside him. 

Keith strokes his hands over his thighs, squeezing and pulling his legs apart so he can look at his cock disappearing inside Shiro’s body. His eyes are dark, hair falling over his shoulders. He’s so fucking beautiful and he’s all Shiro’s. 

“Next you’ll tell me you have a knot or something,” Shiro laughs, relaxing into the sealgrass.

Keith looks up at him, considering as the words translate. Then, simply, he says, “I do.” 

“Oh _fuck,_” Shiro grunts and feels a pulse of arousal flood through him. His head falls back into the grass as Keith crawls up his body, caging him in, and starts fucking into him. “Oh fuck!” 

“I am teasing,” Keith tells him, smiling. “You are already full of me.” 

“Fuck,” Shiro says, breathless, and loops his legs around Keith’s hips, rocking his hips down to meet Keith’s thrusts. “Keith…” 

“Yes,” Keith whispers and kisses him, swallowing his breath. 

By now, they move like they’re dancing, like they’re sparring. Shiro understands the movements of Keith’s body and Keith clearly knows his. They rise and fall to meet each other, moving in sync, seeking each other. He breathes in and Keith is there to meet him. Keith gasps and he is there to swallow it. It’s like they were made to fit together like this. 

Shiro looks up at Keith, breathless, as Keith rocks into him, and thinks that he might never have been sure before what love could feel like, but he thinks he might really be close to knowing it. 

It cascades through him with such surety that he can’t even be afraid. He can’t even stop to think that he’s undeserving. Keith is in his arms. And he wants to be there. 

Shiro wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He’s in love and—

He pulls on Keith’s hair and coaxes him down, kissing him. Keith sighs, his hands gentle on him even as he sets a brutal pace, fucking into Shiro. 

“Husband,” Keith whispers when he breaks the kiss, licking first Shiro’s lips and then his mating mark. “Husband…” 

“Yeah, baby,” Shiro pants, marveling at his ability to still get hard after all of this. He watches his cock plump up against his stomach. Keith’s hand is there, obediently, first fondling his balls with surprising tenderness and then gripping his cock, sweeping up to thumb at his cockhead. 

“You feel good,” Keith murmurs, reverential. 

Shiro yanks up Keith’s free hand and kisses at his wrist, licking and scenting him. Keith groans, shuddering, and fucks him with purpose. 

When Keith fucks inside him hard enough that Shiro feels like he’s splitting open, he can only moan weakly as Keith pushes inside him, as he’s filled with him. He feels Keith’s cock pulsing again and again, stretching him so wide. He grinds down against Keith and refuses to let him get away.

“Inside,” he begs and Keith obeys him— stroking a few more times before he stills, filling Shiro. 

They lie like that, tangled together, Keith’s hips pulsing forward to keep fucking into him. Shiro curls his limbs around him, clinging, and just basking in the feeling of Keith. 

Shiro moans weakly as Keith draws out of him. Keith soothes him with a slow, lingering kiss that leaves Shiro just as breathless. 

In the wake of their orgasm, Shiro can only gulp down air. He tangles his fingers in Keith’s hair and pets through it, combing through it and knocking loose the last semblance of a braid until the ribbon falls to the ground and leaves Keith wild-haired and free. 

Keith hovers over him, studying his face— looking for discomfort or regret, maybe, or just wanting to drink Shiro in. 

Shiro cups Keith’s cheek, thumb tracing the bone there. Keith’s mouth curves in a relieved smile and he closes his eyes, melting into the touch. 

“Keith,” he whispers, surprised by how husky his voice sounds. 

It pulls a deeper smile from Keith, though, and he dips forward. He presses his forehead to Shiro’s, chest to chest, seeking his warmth. Shiro loops his arms around him and holds him and feels the rumble of Keith’s purr. 

“Not bad for a first time, huh?” Shiro asks, laughing. 

Keith makes a sound and bites Shiro’s bottom lip just so he’ll feel the sting. “I could go again.” 

Shiro laughs louder, helplessly. “I might need a minute. You took a lot out of me.” 

Keith’s fingers pet through his hair, tracing the shell of his rounded ear. With the greatest weight to his voice, he says, so seriously, “I will let you rest, husband.” 

Shiro smiles, closing his eyes. “I like that.” 

“Mm?” 

“I always have. The way you call me husband,” Shiro admits. 

Keith nuzzles against him, scenting his neck and working his way up to the mating mark. He purrs, nuzzling and licking at it. Then, bumping up against Shiro’s ear, he whispers, “My husband.” 

Shiro thinks that Keith might be trying to goad him into getting hard again. He’s not quite sure if he can manage it, but he’s willing to try. He gives a theatrical growl, grabs Keith, and rolls him over. He squirms down his body and sinks his mouth onto Keith’s cock, swallowing him in one indulgent lick. 

It’s worth it to hear Keith’s startled, pleased gasp, for him to yank hard on Shiro’s hair, and to come sweetly into Shiro’s mouth after working him with a few bobs of his head.

It’s a different language all their own— the way Keith’s body sings for him and how Shiro’s is so quick to answer. 

-

Shiro feels like a newborn fawn when, once they’re both satisfied, Shiro stands and pulls Keith along with him.

Keith still hesitates as he eyes the water, clearly loathed to get too close, but Shiro only laughs. 

“You won’t want to stay so sticky, sweetheart,” he goads and Keith rolls his eyes. He looks fucked out in the best way, his body sleek and sweaty, covered in different colored come and pieces of sealgrass stuck in his tangled hair.

“Why? You will make me sticky again regardless,” Keith says with an unconcerned shrug as Shiro nearly trips into the river. 

Shiro has to turn around and kiss him for that. But he thinks that might have been Keith’s goal, if the secretive smile he presses against Shiro’s lips is any indication. 

“Give me a moment,” Keith whispers once they part, his eyes gentle as he gazes up at Shiro. 

Shiro nods, kisses him one last time just because he can, and wades knee-deep into the water to wash out their trousers with a perfunctory scrub of his hand, cleaning away their first release. Once he’s finished, he leaves them draped on a large boulder to sundry. 

He feels Keith watching him, relentless, as if afraid the water will sweep Shiro away. Shiro turns to look at him, smiling playfully. 

“You going to leave me all alone out here?” Shiro teases. 

Keith makes a soft grunting sound, mouth thinning. Then he moves cautiously towards the edge of the water and reaches his hand out to Shiro. 

Shiro smiles, moving to him and lifting to take his hand, tangling their fingers together. Shiro goes slow, letting Keith take his time to adjust. He watches his husband dip his toe into the water and wrinkle his nose, clearly distrusting it. Slowly, carefully, he leads Keith into the water. With each step, Keith’s brow pinches until, finally, he relaxes, satisfied now that the water isn’t going to harm them. Shiro reaches out to take his other hand, guiding him. 

Once satisfied, Keith sinks in up to his chest in the purple water with Shiro, eyes locked onto his. 

Shiro doesn’t let go of his hands and, slowly, Keith tangles their fingers together as they wade into the stiller part of the water, deeper there. Keith floats, leaning in against Shiro’s chest, trusting him to buoy him. 

As they float through the water, Keith stays quiet. Not regretting, Shiro thinks, feeling the dull ache of his mating mark and the solid grip of Keith’s hands. But thoughtful, perhaps. Absorbing. 

Shiro doesn’t mind the silence and trusts Keith to speak when he’s ready. 

He has to trust that, now, they won’t be silent with each other for long. 

In the meantime, he lets the water wash over them. He tugs on one of Keith’s hands to draw him in closer, letting go only so he can wrap his arm around him, tethering him to him. He runs his hand up his back, cleaning away the dirt and grass that clings there. 

Keith’s hair is an ink spill behind him, skimming along the water. He nuzzles in close to Shiro and makes a protesting sound as Shiro runs his hand down his back and over his ass, squeezing up against his hole and cleaning him there, too. He nuzzles purposefully into Shiro’s neck as if to distract him, licking at his mark. 

Keith eventually relaxes when he accepts that he won’t be able to coax Shiro into fucking him in the river. 

Shiro does kiss Keith sweetly when he looks up at him to pout, though. He feels floaty and not just because they’re in deep water. He holds Keith close, feeling like he’s never been so happy as he is right now. 

For the first time, he can see his future stretching out before him— and he isn’t resigned to it. He’s excited to see what comes next. 

“I’ve never felt that Daibazaal is my true home,” Keith admits, quietly, as the sun sinks behind the trees, the shadows stretching over the water. They’ll need to return to the city soon. Keith looks up at Shiro, his smile tentative. “But… I look forward to seeing it anew, through your eyes.” 

“I can’t wait to see it,” Shiro tells him and finds that it’s the truth. He cups Keith’s face and kisses him. 

As they pull themselves from the water, they pull on their mostly dry trousers and sit at the riverside as Shiro finger-combs through Keith’s wet hair and twists it into a braid for him. 

“So… Did I finish the rite?” Shiro asks, tying the braid off with the ribbon. 

Keith kisses the end of his braid with a small smile and then turns around to kiss Shiro. 

“Yes,” Keith breathes when he draws back, pressing his forehead to Shiro’s. “We belong to each other.” 

Shiro nods, wondering, his hands skimming up Keith’s body— a well-loved body, a body he knows like it’s his own. “I am yours.” 

“I am yours,” Keith agrees, eyes warm as he touches Shiro’s face. 

-

They arrive back at the High Council in time for dinner to be served. Hunk’s waiting near the head of the table for their usual spots, Princess Allura beside him. They seem to be chatting amicably, although both pause and look up as Shiro and Keith approach.

“Oh, you’re—” Allura begins and stops.

“Oh,” Hunk says, eyes on their hands, fingers threaded, hands clasped together. 

“Oh,” Allura says, softer, eyes on Shiro’s new mating mark. 

Shiro can’t even hold back his grin— he knows it’s not an expression either Allura or Hunk have seen on him before and he can’t even care. He turns towards Keith, who looks similarly goofy. 

They must look too obvious, the hands and mating mark besides. Their hair’s still wet from the river and unruly, their clothes rumpled and dirty. If the Galra have as good a sense of smell as Shiro suspects, he has no doubt everyone in the room knows what they’ve done.

And Shiro doesn’t care. He has Keith. That’s all that matters. 

They chose each other. 

They sit together and eat food. Hunk gives them wary looks, clearly torn between being scandalized and happy for them. Allura looks happy, in the way she’s allowed to be in a public space like this, her smile gentle. 

She does laugh, though, delighted, when Keith turns to him, cups his face, and kisses him in front of everyone. Just because he can, Shiro thinks, so happy as he kisses him back. 

Keith beams at him when Shiro returns the gesture, licking his neck over his own rudimentary mating mark. It’s amazing, how much the calm has settled over him— how even just a few quintants ago, he felt impossibly alone, forever out of reach of any sort of happiness.

And now he has this. Now he has Keith. 

No, he reminds himself. He’s always had Keith. 

“Well,” Hunk says, absently, fully expecting that neither of them is listening to him. “Guess I get to go back to my engineering day job now.” 

Keith licks into Shiro’s mouth with a low purr, his smile a brilliant curve against Shiro’s lips. 

-

Later that night, as Keith helps Shiro translate unknown words in his book of constellations, his chin tucked against Shiro’s shoulder and draping over his back, Shiro pauses and looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

It feels peaceful between them. Quiet. Good. 

Shiro never wants anything between them to be left unsaid again. Taking a breath, quietly, he asks, “How do you express your feelings for someone in Galran?” 

Keith’s eyes glow in the dim light of their quarters, but there’s something like hope and crushing, unerring devotion shining there as he looks at him. 

“_I love you_,” Keith says, quietly. And it doesn’t sound like he’s merely stating it, but offering it to Shiro. 

A small part of Shiro might still be unsure if he deserves it, but the larger part of him, the part of him that feels complete, that’s singing just from the way Keith looks at him— that part knows to trust Keith without question. His mate would never misguide him. 

It occurs to him, sitting here with Keith, that all the things he thought Keith needed, that he wanted— Shiro’s needed and wanted it, too. To be known, to be understood, to be desired, to be touched. Everything. 

And Shiro can only think about what a miracle it is that either of them can even be here at all, that in this massive universe, they somehow found each other— that even through all of this, they can still choose each other. 

In this, always equal. 

He catches Keith’s hand and presses his mouth to his ring. This, he knows, he can let himself want. This, he knows, he can deserve. He stares into Keith’s eyes, those Galran words finally feeling at home on his tongue when he whispers:

“_I love you, Keith_.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject) (including the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/commentbuilder)), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments.
> 
> **ETA:** Thank you to everyone who drew fanart for this fic! If you haven't gotten a chance to see them, please take a look and cry with me. 
> 
> \- Kou and [some very beautiful Keiths](https://twitter.com/paokous/status/1178498038530076672).  
\- Cruel and [the prettiest Keith](https://twitter.com/CruelisB/status/1178781606452047872).  
\- St00pz and [Shiro and Keith's sparring](https://twitter.com/st00pzdraws/status/1181527198840156160).  
\- FlippinPancakes and [a shook Shiro and a pretty Keith](https://twitter.com/FlippinPancake2/status/1186869084044042240) and [Shiro trying to braid Keith's hair](https://twitter.com/FlippinPancake2/status/1268632084102422528).  
\- Ves and [Shiro tying Keith's hair with the ribbon](https://twitter.com/polymorphin_/status/1230613411152695296).  
\- Krys and [adorable sleepy sheiths](https://twitter.com/HalfOfAKey/status/1298478979410788353) cuddling in bed. 
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/stardropdream)


End file.
